


Hindsight Would Be a Lovely Thing

by juurensha



Series: Rise [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition, Dragon Age: Origins, Dragon Age: Origins - Awakening
Genre: F/F, F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-01
Updated: 2015-08-25
Packaged: 2018-03-10 00:58:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 21
Words: 115,183
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3270848
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/juurensha/pseuds/juurensha
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mages and Templars: a mainstay of popular literature, but reality is much more difficult. The road from First Enchanter's apprentice to Warden Commander is long, and intersects with that of the girl who would become the Herald of Andraste and the Inquisitor.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Amell: The Beginning

**Author's Note:**

> Well, couldn't resist typing up headcanons that turned into loooong stories, so I might as well post it.

She vaguely remembers her mother, warm hands and a smile, but that is hazy, like something out of a dream, and quite honestly she’s not sure if she made it up or if it is real. She remembers freezing a cup of water for the first time, and her mother’s gasp of despair and the way the cold that swirled around her hands felt like a knot finally coming loose in her. She remembers the voyage across the sea (but not what was on the other side), the rocking of the boat, the clank of armor, and the frantic clutching sadness of being so far from anything familiar. 

She is 4 years old when she arrives at Kinloch Hold (later, when she is the Hero of Ferelden, Arlessa of Amaranthine, Commander of the Grey, when she meets what is left of her family, she will wonder why she was sent so far when her brother and sister were only sent as far as Ostwick and Markham. Maybe their mother wished to send them as far from Kirkwall’s Gallows as possible, and her siblings could not join her across the Waking Sea since Ferelden only has one Circle), young to manifest but not unheard of. Another boy, only one year older, has just joined the Circle as well, so it is only natural that they become friends. It is frightening at first, even with Jowan’s company, but the older mages dote upon them, quietly showing them small tricks of magic, reading stories to them, and whispering that no matter what the Chantry says, magic is a gift. One that can be dangerous, one that needs to be controlled, but a gift nevertheless. 

She grows up in the tower, singing the Chant while learning spells and magic and how to navigate the Fade that she walks in her dreams. (The Chantry sisters tell her that magic is a curse, an affront in the sight of the Maker. She runs to Lyla, one of the apprentice mages who likes looking after the children, in tears, and she hugs her, smoothes her hair, and breathes into her ear that sometimes the Chantry is wrong. Lyla is one of the first that she wakes up one day to be found lost to her Harrowing; she learns that day of Kinloch Hold’s mages’ tradition of lightning a candle with the lost’s name on it and telling stories about them late into the night, until the candle burns out. It is the first, but it is far from the last in her fifteen years in the Circle. Sometimes she prays, sometimes she doesn’t, but she always takes one candle, name gouged in with her nails and lit with lightning to the chantry and places it on the altar. Surely the Maker could not begrudge them that) Ice still comes easily; before she is ten she can put up ice walls with a flick of her hand, and by the time she is fifteen, she can stomp on the ground and ice nearly the entire training ground (she is twenty one when Carver Hawke joins the Grey Wardens and hears some of the other wardens refer to her as Lady Winter. By the time she is twenty five, the ranks of Ferelden wardens near what was lost at Ostagar, Amaranthine a shining city that rivals both Kirkwall and Highever, most of Vigil's Keep hails her that. Even Alistair jokingly calls her that sometimes, a teasing remark as he draws her closer). She learns electricity slowly, learning how to pluck out enough magic to create shivery sparks and later bolts from the sky. She never gets the hang of fire to her primal magic instructor’s despair; anytime she wants to light anything, she first has to create a spark of lightning as a trigger. 

She wants to be a battlemage because battlemages get to travel as they go fight for random nobles (and also, even if she loves poring through old tomes, she also loves the thrill of battle, the unleashing of most of her restraint as she pours out magic, the twirl of her staff, the satisfaction of seeing her opponent knocked down on the ground). It doesn’t come naturally at first (the first time she hears a bard claim that she has never fallen in battle she laughs and laughs. The training grounds of Kinloch Hold saw her fall more than not, especially when she had not yet learned how to walk across the ice she covered the ground with without slipping), her staff feeling awkward in her hand, her instincts untrained about how to move and where to direct the power that dances beneath her skin. But she keeps at it, every afternoon spinning her staff and jumping around the training grounds until her fingers have worn grooves in her staff and she has earned the respect of the gruff battlemage that oversees the drills. She picks up some spirit healing as well, since spirit healers also get to travel with armies. (She has not been farther than Lake Calenhad since her arrival from across the Waking Sea; she likes paging through atlases, drawing a finger down the maps of places she will eventually be able to visit if all goes well). She’s not especially good at it, her talent in primal magic being directly opposed to the spirit class of magic, but she manages to at least summon a few benevolent spirits and heal a few hurts, so at least it isn’t the terribleness that is her fire magic. 

She is ten when they bring a scared blonde boy from the Anderfels to the Circle. He is two years older than her, nervous and jumpy, and even if it has been six years and she no longer remembers where she came from, she still remembers the lost feeling of first arriving at the Circle. She smiles and shows him around, and elbows Jowan when he gets too pushy. Still, it is Jowan who dubs the boy Anders after he refuses to say his name (some superstition about mages needing a true name to control a person perhaps?), and soon, no one remembers the boy as anything but Anders. (Years later, when everything in Kirkwall goes to hell, and war rages between the Templars and mages, she will wonder if naming him after a gentler nation would have helped.) 

They grow up together, Anders growing more confident, more snarky, more rebellious, gold glinting in his ear as he regales her with tales of his ridiculous exploits while she rolls her eyes (Anders flirts like crazy, but she knows that Karl Thelka is his first. Karl however is too old, and she frowns and may freeze his socks every once in awhile because she doesn’t approve. She doesn’t attempt to drag him to the practice ring to face off against her only because Anders seems genuinely in love with the man. It’s not until Jowan introduces her to Lily that she realizes with a sinking feeling that both of the boys that she calls brother have terrible taste in suitable partners.) He gets obsessed with Tevinter and convinces her to learn Tevene with him just to read through old Tevinter texts and to be able to have halting conversations in a language none of the Templars can understand. He gathers enough feathers to attempt to try and make his circle robes more like Tevinter mage robes, and she predictably has to help him filch new robes from the storehouse when his sticking spell goes disastrously wrong. 

If Anders is her annoying older brother, then Jowan is still ever her annoying younger brother, despite the fact that he is older than her. He comes to her to practice spells together, with him laughing at her red-faced attempts to summon even a flicker of fire, and her shutting him up with either a shock or his robe frozen to his chair. He greets her with the gossip of the day, with his complaints about his teachers, and any news he has managed to glean about the outside (in hindsight, she should have known something was wrong when in the months leading up to her Harrowing, since she had barely seen him. But she had been buried in books since the First Enchanter had been dropping hints that it was almost time, and so she had missed that her oldest friend had turned to blood magic out of jealousy until it was far too late). If he gets picked on by the other mages for his lack of power (things that come so easily for her do not for him, besides fire), she is the one who manages to adjust the training ground schedule so they end up in front of her in the practice ring, and she takes some pleasure in knocking them into the dirt. 

She makes other friends as well. Alissa is an elf from Orlais, with a gift for spirit healing that rivals Anders and a sharp tongue to match. They become close friends; no one else loves the terrible penny dreadfuls that have been managed to get smuggled into the library the way the two of them do. They pass them back and forth, lurid covers hidden behind serious books about magical theory, giggling at the terribleness of the plots. She is fourteen when she cuts her hair short, after a close call with a fireball during battlemage practice, and it is Alissa who teaches her how to braid her hair in beautifully intricate braids that make her mourn the loss of her cascade of black locks less. 

Elaine is a gentle girl from Highever, with a knack for creation spells and a simple love of gardening. Despite her soft demeanor, she can more than hold up her end with their sarcastic little group of friends, usually saying things so dryly that it takes awhile for someone to realize that she has insulted them. She is glad that she has someone to go to for fresh elfroot and a sympathetic ear when she has no tolerance for the sass that the others would give her if she mentioned her anxieties (most would be glad to be the apprentice to the First Enchanter, groomed to be the next leader of the Circle, but she wants to go and see the world first before anything else. Other First Enchanters of other circles may leave, but Ferelden only has Kinloch Hold, so that is where its First Enchanter must stay). 

She is fifteen when Jowan dodges one of her freezing spells that she had flung at him for being a pest, and she accidentally hits a curly blonde Templar new to the tower. She is horrified and frantically undoes the spell, babbling apologies the entire time (Knight Commander Greagoir is fair but strict, and the Templar easily has proof that she used magic against him, even accidentally). The Templar smiles (nervously? She’d never met a nervous Templar before) and reassures her that he is fine and accepts her hand to draw him back up. He introduces himself as Cullen, and she smiles at him, and he stutters, rubs the back of his neck, and runs off. Jowan won’t stop laughing until she this time manages to hit him with another freezing spell. 

Soon, all her friends know. Anders says that she really can’t scold him about his taste anymore when she likes _Templars_ of all people (she smacks him in the back of the head with her book and points out that at least she’s not the one who got caught having sex in the First Enchanter’s office), Alissa smirks and slips trashy contraband Templar/mage romances into her textbooks when she isn’t looking (she flushes, looks around, guiltily flips through them quickly, catching the gist of the plot, before crumpling them up and throwing them at Alissa’s face), Elaine giggles and says that he’s kind of cute (not the point), and Jowan _still_ won’t stop laughing (at least he’s getting practice dodging her spells). The truth of the matter is, Cullen is friendly, willing to talk, (a surprise; some Templars are nice, but most of them are strict like their Knight Commander, and then there are some you never want to get stuck alone with), and he’s certainly easy on the eyes, but there is no question of her trying anything while still an apprentice. Once a mage is Harrowed, they can’t be turned Tranquil; apprentice mages have no such reassurance. Oh, it’s true that even if relations between mages and Templars are forbidden, it happens anyway (for better or for worse), but she does not want to risk it. Thankfully, Cullen seems happy enough just talking to her about life beyond the Circle, so she makes a new friend. 

All that drama is completely set aside though after Anders is harrowed and becomes more rebellious than ever. (There’s first a celebration where she and Jowan managed to convince the kitchen staff to let them make a cake, Elaine manages to unearth a bottle of vintage wine from some hidden store in the greenhouse, and even Alissa has a few complimentary words to say to Anders. Karl comes too, and she is happy enough to tell him that at least he isn’t completely robbing the cradle now. Anders glares at her before messily making out with him all over the place while she goes to get more cake. Later, she wonders that his Harrowing was so early. She voices this thought to the First Enchanter who simply shrugs and briskly asks her how she is faring on her lightning spells. Alissa is the one who points out that given how much trouble Anders is, maybe they just wanted to see if they could get rid of him faster. It has an unfortunate ring of truth to it) Karl is transferred to the Kirkwall Circle that needs new talent, and now that Anders cannot be made tranquil, he sees nothing holding him here. 

He tries to escape the tower six times, one time leaping into the lake and swimming away. They were all banned from going outside the tower a long time after that, and she yells at him when he returned. She doesn’t understand his attempts; the Templars have his phylactery and anyway, where is he running to? She asks him this, and he snorts and tells her that anywhere is better than here. He is punished with lashings, magebane, and imprisonment, but still he persists. She hears that the Knight Commander wants to execute him, but the First Enchanter reassures her that he sees Anders as reckless but not a threat and will continue to oppose the Knight Commander in this matter. She hisses to Anders that if he keeps this up he might be dead, and he yells at her that he’d rather be dead than stuck in this hellhole. 

(It’s not as though she doesn’t see his point. Life in the Circle a gilded cage, and although the Knight Commander keeps his Templars on a short leash, she knows his reach doesn’t always extend to the dungeons. It can be dangerous for a mage who doesn’t entirely fit the Chantry’s mold. She wants to leave as well; that’s why she sticks to most of the rules because that way perhaps at some point she can get permission to go. But Anders does not want to wait, he wants to leave now, and she cannot fathom why he would be willing to risk so much in exchange for just a few more years stuck here.) 

She is sixteen when Anders makes his fifth escape attempt, and she covers the fact that he is gone for three days. That time he actually has a plan of sorts and a destination; he wants to get to Kirkwall, where Karl is, and he needs her to cover for him at least until he can get to the Storm Coast. From there, he can get a boat, and once he crosses the sea, phylactery or no phylactery, he becomes much harder to track. She agrees because even if Anders is an idiot, and even if this puts her at risk, she worries that if he doesn’t truly get away soon, the Knight Commander really will just execute him. He sneaks away in the cover of night, and for the next three days she convinces everyone that the lump in Ander’s quarters is a disgustingly ill Anders. Two things happen on the fourth day: Niall goes to Ander’s quarters to talk to him and discovers that he isn’t actually there, and Anders himself is dragged back to the tower by a suspicious Templar who had caught him trying to steal a horse in Jader. 

The Knight Commander is furious, and the First Enchanter is deeply disappointed in her. Between the two of them, her punishment is hammered out: three lashes, with no healing for three days. They dose her with magebane before taking her to the training grounds to be flogged. (It’s like having your hearing or sight taken, the loss of magic.) She stumbles toward the post, and they do not even have to force her onto her knees since the ground seems at least reassuringly solid. She gets splinters in her hands from gripping the post so hard during the flogging in an attempt to not scream (she has her pride; she is an Amell, whatever that means, she is Alissa’s closest friend and the only one who dares to interrupt her in her studies, she is Jowan’s protector, she is the apprentice of the First Enchanter, and she does not regret her decision to help Anders nor does she think it was the wrong decision. Much later, even after she sees her sister’s body laid out after Markham’s Circle rises in rebellion, she does not regret this decision. This is not the decision of hers that led to Anders’ ruin, even if it is the only one that relates to Anders that she bears visible scars for). She is bleeding and her jaw hurts from her gritting her teeth together and her hands are still clenched as they lead her away to bring Anders forward (he’s earned ten lashes and three weeks in the dungeons), but still she whispers _Na via lerno Victoria (only the living know victory_ ) at him. 

She gets another day of no healing added on for that, but thankfully Elaine has poultices that she carefully applies in the dead of the night as Alissa keeps watch, hands clenched. She spends most of the days in bed, nauseous with the magebane they keep dosing her with (they don’t trust her to not heal herself as soon as she gets her magic back). Jowan brings her food and water and brushes her hair back from her face and tells her the most ridiculous rumors around the tower in as light of a voice as he can manage. As soon as the four days are up, Alissa’s hands glow and the burning on her back finally stops. There are still scars, as the days without healing were meant to produce, but not as bad as they could have been (Later, she is glad they are on her back and therefore hard for herself to see. Even if she does not regret the decision that led to them, she cannot look or touch them without remembering that the Anders she knew, that she got them for, that she called brother is long gone now). 

She arrives for lessons as usual with the First Enchanter, and the only mention he makes of the whole incident is that she seems fully recovered. Cullen sees her in the library and hurries over to ask if she’s alright, and when she replies that she is as well as she can be, he hands her a newly bound book, gold embossed on the cover. He explains that it arrived in the library two days ago, and he thought she might like to be the first to look at it, and—does she like it? 

She brushes a hand wonderingly over the cover ( _In Pursuit of Knowledge: The Travels of a Chantry Scholar_ by Brother Genitivi) and flips through a few pages to see carefully drawn maps along with the words of the travelogue. She beams at him and thanks him profusely for holding onto it for her. He blushes and stammers that he had wanted to read through it too and that—he had better return to his duties now. If she happens to hold onto the book and not mention its origins when Anders returns, pale and haggard, that’s her secret. 

She is seventeen when she lets another apprentice mage take her virginity. There are bets, there are always bets in the tower, and the fact that she has been bedded by no one up until now means the stakes are high for her. She decides to get it over with as quickly as possible so as to avoid unpleasant situations (by now she is the undisputed master among the apprentice mages as a battlemage so few would dare, and everyone knows that Anders’ and Alissa’s and not to mention Elaine’s wrath would be terrible to behold, but there are still some people who like force and would see her as a fun challenge). There is no one safe that she especially wants, (and even Cullen, she’s not sure she wants outside of her imagination), so Elaine points out Robert. Robert is a boy from Denerim with a surprising gift for entropy spells, despite the fact that he never really wants to use them. He is smitten with Elaine, constantly hanging around the apothecary to get a glimpse of her, but he won’t make any moves because he’s a virgin and Elaine is not, and he’s terrified that Elaine will laugh at him. They both have a problem, Elaine is the one to delicately suggest the solution (she asks why Elaine doesn’t want to deflower him, and she points out that Robert can’t even talk to her without turning into a blushing mess and if she puts a hand on him, he might combust.), and a quick fumble in the back corner of the library more or less solves it. (She doesn’t especially enjoy it. He doesn’t know where to put his hands, she doesn’t know where to put her legs, they’re both imagining other people, and afterwards she grimaces as she cleans up and gets moon tea from Elaine). The bet on her is settled, Robert gets a boost in reputation for bedding her and enough confidence that he manages to bring flowers and hold hands with Elaine without running away midway, and Anders and Jowan are convinced to not attempt to fry him. (Alissa raises her eyebrows and simply hands her the latest installment of the haunted house serial they were reading). She figures out how to make ice crawl over her body like armor, takes on three opponents at once in the training grounds, grins when she barely feels their attacks hit, freezes them all, and when Cullen comes to congratulate her on her victory, she chats with him about whether or not Brother Genitivi will come to the Circle any time soon (it seems that he’s off investigating something about the Urn of Sacred Ashes, so he’s unlikely to come research that book about Kinloch Hold they had heard he was working on). 

She turns eighteen, and they celebrate by going out to the lake in a rowboat (Templars on watch the whole time, but they are far away, and she loves being out on the water). A week later Anders runs away and is caught for the sixth time and sentenced to a year in isolation in the prisons. She manages to see him right before he is sent away, slipping a small crystal that will light up with a word (Jowan’s work) into his robes, and he smiles wryly at her and says, “Next time I see you, all of you will be full Circle mages, hm?” (Next time she sees him, she and Alissa are the only ones who have earned their rings of study) After that, she returns to her books since her Harrowing must be imminent. 

She is nineteen when she is Harrowed, a Grey Warden arrives at the circle with a city elf in tow, and everything changes. 


	2. Trevelyan: The Beginning

She is named for a fictional queen and raised to make a good marriage and rule, with lessons upon lessons about etiquette, politics, dancing, speech, the Chant, and all the things that make a good noble. She had enjoyed the lessons; there was something about the delicate skill of convincing another person that her view was theirs that she found exhilarating (this does not change, to her shame. Manipulation is her forte, and she does not like what that says about her). Life was a planned path until she was found to have magic at the age of 12. She is angry at the younger of her two brothers (something about messing up her dress maybe, she has forgotten in the ensuing turmoil), and lifts a hand and _pushes,_ and suddenly her brother is flying into the wall, and she is gaping at the shiny barrier that is now in front of her. Magic is cursed in the eyes of the Maker, and so she runs and hides in the maze in the garden, wrapping her arms around herself and shaking her head in denial ( _no no no,_ she is _not_ a mage, she is Rasleanne Trevelyan, she will make her debut in four years, she will be the darling of the court and depending on who she marries, a master at the Great Game, and _this cannot be_ happening). It is her eldest brother who finds her, his face more still than she has ever seen it. She is brought back to the house, her father looks tired, her mother looks colder and more remote than she has ever seen her, and there is a Templar in the study along with a trunk of her belongings, and she is bundled off to Ostwick’s Circle with a cursory farewell. (She doesn’t even unpack that night, curled up in the bunk that is so much smaller than the luxurious bed of home, and even though she tries with short pained gasps, she can’t stop crying) 

She does not adjust well at first. She is sullen through lessons, she picks at her food, and she hears the whispers around her that a _Trevelyan_ has been found to be a mage. She tries going to the chapel, but it is painful to be in a place that is so familiar when everything that she called home is gone (she has sent letters to her family; all of them are returned unopened and oh how she had tried not to cry, eyes stinging as she slowly feeds each letter into the fire). She starts to skip services, hiding herself in the gloom of the apothecary, and that’s where she meets Oscar Amell. She has just huddled into her customary nook by the vials of health potions (the smell of elfroot is soothing), when the door bangs open, and a dark haired teenage boy scrambles in, shuts the door, and flops down by her side while frantically gesturing for her to not make any noise. She hears the clank of armor as Templars walk quickly past, and then the boy is grinning and laughing. 

“You should have seen their faces!” he manages to say, bent over and still giggling, “It was beautiful! They’ll never be able to look at that room again without remembering! Thanks by the way, for not giving me away.” 

“You’re welcome,” she replies. She hesitates (proper ladies don’t get involved in scandal, at least not the kind that is easily traced back to its source, but then again, she’s a mage now. There’s little chance of her becoming a proper lady ever again) and then asks, “Why are you hiding?” 

He grins, “I may have lined all the pews in the chapel with whoopee cushions,” he says, “And they may have just found out during service.” 

She puts a hand over her mouth but not before a snort of laughter slips out ( _whoopee cushions_ in the _chapel;_ it’s almost sacrilegious. If her mother ever heard about this, she might faint dead away). 

“Oh come on, laugh away, it’s not like there’s anyone from the Chantry here,” he says, standing up and looking around, “Hm, can’t mess with health potions or lyrium potions; too much could go wrong. Buuuut, what do you think about taking some rashvine and sneaking it into the First Enchanter’s robes?” 

“What do you have against the First Enchanter?” she asks. 

He rolls his eyes, opening the drawers of herbs, “Well for starters, she’s super stuffy and thinks that trying out lightning spells in the middle of the storm is ‘dangerous and stupid.’ And then there’s the fact that she makes me recite the Chant if I miss too many sermons, when in the first place, I wouldn’t have to sleep or skip the sermons if she gave me less work to do. And if I complain, I get latrine duty, which is just _so_ much fun you know. And of course there’s the simple reason that it’ll be funny; it’s not a good day in the Circle unless I can get three different senior enchanters hopping mad at me.” 

He pauses in his rummaging of the drawers and looks at her, “Now that I think about it, I don’t think we’ve met. You new here?” 

She sighs (she hates the response her name gets; there are more than a few Templars who share her surname, and although thankfully none are currently stationed in Ostwick’s Circle, people still remember) and duly replies, “Yes. I am Rasleanne Trevelyan.” 

“Rasleanne Trevelyan, Rasleanne Trevelyan….” he repeats and then pulls out the rashvine triumphantly, “Got it! Oh, you’re the one Andi mentioned. Well, welcome to the tower and to the club of mages whose existence adds an exciting amount of infamy upon our families’ reputations; I’m Oscar Amell.” 

“Amell,” she repeats. (She has heard of the Amell family; she remembers her mother sneering at how one branch of the family had produced nothing but mages, one after the other.) “Of Kirkwall?” 

Oscar raises his eyebrows, “I see we’re quite infamous now. Yes, I’m from Kirkwall, although quite honestly I don’t remember much about it. I was seven when they brought me here.” 

She frowns, “Why so far from Kirkwall?” 

He starts to laugh and then stops when he realizes it’s a genuine question, “Oh, you’re serious. Kirkwall’s Circle isn’t someplace you want to be; let’s start with the fact that it’s located in a place called the Gallows and leave it at that for now. Mother was so determined to make sure none of us ended up there that my oldest sister ended up in Ferelden from what I hear.” 

She shivers (despite the fact that everything familiar is a somewhat painful reminder that nothing will be as she thought her life would be, at least she recognizes the city outside of her window. What would it be like to be taken completely from that?) “You have siblings?” 

He nods, “Yeah, two sisters, one older, one younger. My oldest sister, Iluuser, I barely remember. I was like three when she manifested? She was four, so I bet she doesn’t even remember us. No one lets us send letters that far. My younger sister Clarice, manifested when she was five and I was six. She got sent to the Circle in Markham. And I was the late bloomer at seven.” 

He wraps up the rashvine in small packets and tosses her two, “For anyone you want to mess with. If you want pointers about the Circle, come find me!” 

She glances down at the packets and then back at him, “Why?” she asks suspiciously (there had to be a catch to his kindness) 

“Because it’s hard being new to the Circle, Maker knows I remember that,” he replies easily, stuffing the packets into the pockets of his robe, “Plus, I need a pranking assistant now that Andi is mad at me _again.”_

And that is it, that is how she makes her closest friends for the next twelve years. When she goes to the dining hall that night for supper, Oscar waves her over to his table where he introduces her to Andi, a curly red haired girl who snipes and snarls at Oscar but at the same time is curled at his side, and Marcel, a light haired elf whose head is buried in a book and mumbles hello at her, not looking up. She awkwardly sits with them, but they’re friendly enough. She was a bit intimidated by Andi at first since the older girl looks at her, snorts, and comments that Oscar has too many strays, but later, noticing her picking at her plate, she offers her some of the freshly baked sweetbread that she had apparently swiped from the kitchens (there’s a reason she and Oscar are always together). The next few days, anyone who whispers about her name gets knocked with a few nasty entropy spells or simply shoved into a wall, courtesy of Andi, and after that no one really talks about the Trevelyans, at least not around her. She also joins Oscar and her on their pranking adventures, even if half the time Andi just ends up lobbing things at Oscar’s head (Andi and Oscar are apparently off and on, with constant arguments, fights, and passionate make outs in the stacks. Marcel says that they have always been like that, just that there was more hair pulling when they were younger). She teaches her to kick and punch and fight, to know which Templars and mages to avoid, and even if she rarely has a kind word to say to anyone, still she always makes sure that Rasleanne has fresh vegetables, fruit, and nice cakes on her plate. 

Marcel, when he notices that she’s around anyway, rummages through his many piles of books to find her a few nice adventure novels and books on plants with a hazy smile (she’s surprised that Marcel knows what year it is sometimes, let alone the fact that he knows what she likes to read). It took him three weeks to remember her name, during which he would sometimes stare at her blearily and call her ‘small girl.’ (Oscar says Marcel has improved a lot because when he first met him; it had taken him two months of sitting next to the boy at dinner and during classes before Marcel had referred to him as anything but ‘You.’ She asks him why he wanted to make friends with him, and Oscar shrugs and says that he reminds him of Clarice except softer and more muddled. Apparently she’s big into studying as well). He lends her his old notes for her classes, is always happy to explain anything she wants to ask about magic (although first she usually has to dangle a cookie or another book in front of his face to get his attention), and is a surprising storehouse of gossip around the Circle (people say a lot of things in front of him since he never looks like he is listening, but his ears are sharp and his memory is even sharper). He is also happy to play chess with her, the one thing that he will put down his book for besides meals and classes (she used to play with her eldest brother Edmund; she wonders who he plays with now). 

But it is Oscar who tells her that if she goes to class, he’ll get her some candy (she turns up her nose and informs him that she isn’t _five_ , but she does go to class and he does produce a bag of salted caramels and they are tasty and she grudgingly admits that to his smiling face), Oscar who takes (she would argue drags, but he points out that if he didn’t she’d be gloomy in the garden planting nightshade or deathroot or something) her with him as he runs his prank tour (she thinks the only reason the Templars haven’t punished him more is because somehow he’s friends with most of them too. It must be his mysterious ability to get ahold of quality sweets at any given time), Oscar who gets the head herbalist of the Circle to give her extra lessons and her own little patch of the garden to grow things in (she grows elfroot and blood lotus and crystal grace and prophet’s laurel, and Oscar swipes some to turn into little bouquets to flourish and give to Andi, who blushes and yells at him, and she giggles watching them). Oscar who declares that her name is far too long and calls her Lea, and it sticks, so Marcel and Andi call her that as well. 

Oscar who notices her burning her returned letters and carefully sits next to her and tells her while staring at the fire that magic is a gift. That yes, it’s dangerous, yes, it can be used to harm people, and yes, possession was a real danger, but regardless, it is not a curse. She asks him how when all it has brought her is the abandonment of everything she once knew (and that now her silly dream to lead, to rule is tainted because magic was made to serve man, not rule over him, and isn’t it further proof of her unsuitability that still she wishes to climb because you can’t train a girl to love the social intricacies of court and then take it away). He sighs, and pulls her into a side hug, and tells her fiercely that if her family abandoned her just because of this, then they aren’t worth it, not at all. He tells her that she’s wonderful, that she’s brilliant, and one day, she’ll show them all (and she knows that she has found a new family of sorts then because when she pictures herself, older and regal and triumphant, she also pictures him standing grinning to the side and clapping, with Andi on his arm, scowling but also clapping and farther away, Marcel sitting at a windowsill, reading. Even her imagination has its limits). He ruffles her hair fondly and informs her that starting tomorrow he’s going to give her some tips on electricity magic because that’s his specialty and she needs to know more than plants. 

He is good on his word, and she does become proficient at it, learning how to summon lightning down from the sky, how to make an entire field tingle so that more lightning can be drawn down with ease, and even how to clench her fist and create a static cage that few can escape. (The day she figures out how to wrest control from Oscar to control his static cage is also the day Oscar starts blubbering about how she’s all grown up and how proud he is of her. She thinks he was only half joking). He also teaches her a few tricks with a knife because as he points out, a mage can’t always rely on his or her magic (even the friendliest Templar might find Oscar’s penchant for attempting to make the entire armory a line dancing chorus of empty suits of armor operated simply through summoned electricity a bit much. He gets dosed with magebane as punishment more than once, and she quickly learns from the way he frantically shoves at her and tells her to run that this is one of the worst things for a mage). Oscar can hit a single falling leaf at a hundred paces and can easily switch from one hand to another in a quick slashing motion; she never gets that good. She knows a few basic stabbing techniques, and she quickly figures out how to charge the entire knife with lightning, but all attempts at teaching her how to throw a knife end up with them frantically running away from the training grounds before an irate battlemage or Templar can catch them (she has really bad aim, and thank goodness battlemages know barrier spells and Templars wear armor). 

She also learns how to navigate the politics and intrigue of Ostwick’s Circle, making friends with a light word there and a smile there (even if her family wants nothing to do with her, she is nothing if not her mother’s daughter), using Marcel’s knowledge of gossip to her advantage (she knows what certain people like, and more importantly, she knows what some people do not want anyone else to know. Oscar can go on thinking it’s his charm that keeps them safe, and most of the time it is, but if she manages to use that information to bail herself, Oscar, and Andi out of trouble a few times when Oscar’s pranks have fallen on important people, he doesn’t need to know), and climbing the ranks by becoming excelling at her studies (all the political maneuvering in the world is nothing in the Circle without a show of actual raw magical power, so she studies and learns. No one is better than her at concocting potions and elixirs and strange grenades out of the bounty of the gardens, and few can match her in a lightning storm). 

Sometimes she feels guilty, smiling at people when she doesn’t mean it, all to make connections so that it’ll be easier to climb (and why does she want to climb anyway? First Enchanter isn’t that great of a job, as Oscar frequently comments. And yet—she was told since she was small that she would become a great lady and marry well and do great and good things with that power, and even if most of that is no longer possible, it is still hard to let go of that last part of that dream). She still only counts Oscar and Andi and Marcel as her true friends, the others—well, there’s those that she wouldn’t talk to at all if she didn’t have to (even here there are family connections that come into play, even if hers are all gone), there are those that are okay, and there are those that she genuinely likes, but she will never share her problems with them. It is hard to trust in the Circle; most things come with a price, and so she trusts the people who offered her help without any other obligation, but to others she can’t quite extend the same courtesy. 

(Oscar knows this, because of course he does, but besides a bemused comment or two as he whisks her away from schmoozing to help him put ice spells all over the Senior Enchanters’ bathrooms, he doesn’t seem to care. Andi also knows and argues with her; she cannot understand why she wants to climb the ranks and be part of the system instead of trying to leave. She always asks Andi, leave to where? She cannot return home, and that is the only place that she has ever really longed for. The Circle is—well, it’s not home, not the place where she was the beloved youngest daughter of a noble family who had such high hopes for her, but it’s the closest thing she can have now. Andi snorts in disgust and says that she could leave to become a battlemage or a spirit healer in an army, but she does not relish battle and has no talent as a spirit healer. She likes her patch of the garden with her carefully cultivated plants, her nook in the library where Marcel has basically claimed five bookshelves as his personal property, Oscar’s delighted laughter at yet another stupid prank pulled off successfully, Andi’s barbed words tempered by the appearance of delicate little cakes from Orlais, and the careful maneuvering of words and friendships and favors that make up the politics of the Circle. She has carved out a place here where she more or less fits, and she is loathe to change that) 

She is fifteen when the Fifth Blight is ended, and one of the Heroes of Ferelden is a mage whose last name is Amell, and whose first name makes Oscar pause and make the bard repeat. 


	3. Amell: Harrowing

She finds the Fade unpleasant, a maze of a forest straight out of the nightmares of her childhood after reading too many fairy tales. Finding a talking mouse just compounds the feeling. He claims to be a failed apprentice mage, but she has never seen him before. True, he could have predated her arrival at the Circle, but he is wearing the robes of a senior enchanter, and she’s not sure she can really trust anything here. Next they fight some wolves and meet a sloth demon in the shape of a bear that wants answers to riddles to teach Mouse how to turn into a bear (if it is the dreamer that shapes the Fade, she is seriously wondering if she has managed to barge straight into one of her childhood stories). Then she fights a spirit of Valor for a staff (she doesn’t necessarily need one, their old battlemage instructor had been very insistent on not becoming dependent on any one method of throwing magic at an opponent, but she would certainly feel better with a staff in her hand. At the very least, it lets her whack things that get to close), and defeats a bunch of wolves and a Rage demon but not before the demon says some _very_ interesting things about Mouse (nothing is what it seems here). 

She turns, and asks for the names of those he has betrayed before, and Mouse is wearing a very unpleasant expression. She readies her staff at her side as he, it, whatever, congratulates her, _changes_ , and tells her that true tests never end (she will wonder in years to come, as she is writing letters, trying to steady her shaking hand, before the Battle of Denerim, as she climbs through ruins to reach the Mother, as she watches the Circles rip themselves apart, as she flips through old books to try and stop the Calling while the sky lies torn by the Breach, what that demon had seen. Had it seen her proud and laughing with joy as Ferelden’s Circle is declared free and she whirls around the dance floor with all her companions? Had it seen her happy with the bustling state of Amaranthine and Vigil’s Keep, greeting Alistair from its walls? Had it seen her blithely sign-off on Anders and Justice going on a patrol with an ex-Templar, to never see them again as they were? Had it seen her trying to comfort her brother and the girl he called a younger sister as Ostwick’s Circle’s steps were stained with blood?). 

She wakes up, and Jowan is hovering over her (it’s the first time she’s seen him in weeks). She ignores his chatter for a bit in favor of making sure she’s still in one piece (she is), and not possessed (there is no one in her mind but her, and after all, the Templars would not have left her alive if there had been any indication otherwise), and notices a silver ring now on her right hand (her ring of study, so she really has passed). She sidesteps his questions about what the Harrowing actually is (The Fade is affected by the dreamer, and she fears that if she tells him anything, his mind will simply conjure more horrors for him to face. She understands now why Anders didn’t want to sleep for days following his Harrowing although at the time she had been a bit busy trying to cover her ears while simultaneously trying to create enough ice to push Anders out of their dormitory for barging in in the middle of the night and trying to tell her about everything he and Karl had been up to), and he’s not happy with her (he hasn’t been for most of this month), and huffily tells her that the First Enchanter wants to see her. 

She climbs out of bed, notices that her chest seems to have vanished (she gets new quarters, and she has to say she’s somewhat excited), and hurries out. The mages that see her smile and congratulate her (everyone is happy that they will not have to light another candle that night), and she’s apparently the talk of the tower. 

She bumps into Cullen, and he congratulates her and apologizes that he was the one that would have carried out the execution had she not passed (She’s not angry that he is the one chosen to kill her. She’d rather be dead than possessed by something that wears her like a meat suit). She smiles at him, giggles a bit at his blush, and tells him they can talk later (and this is the last time she speaks to him while the Circle is whole). 

She sees the First Enchanter and the Knight Commander arguing as always, but this time there is a man and an elf that she does not recognize by their side. The man coughs, they stop arguing, the Knight Commander storms away, and the First Enchanter congratulates her warmly (If she has vague memories of her mother, she has no memories at all of her father. First Enchanter Irving is the closest thing she has to a father, even if Anders despises the man. When she was first singled out to be Irving’s apprentice, Anders had hissed that if she wasn’t so willing to follow the Circle’s rules, if she had a smidgen less talent, Irving could care less about her. That all the First Enchanter wants is an obedient successor, and she should remember that. And while it is true that she doubts the First Enchanter would care much about her if he had thought she didn’t have the strength to pass her Harrowing, she thinks he does the best he can. He does seem to try to keep his mages safe from Greagoir’s Templars as much as possible. A stricter First Enchanter could have easily had Anders killed long ago after all, and even if she shudders at the memory of the bite of magebane and the whip, she knows she could have been thrown into the dungeons to rot in the dark and worse. She knows he is proud of her, and she would say that he feels some affection for her, and this she knows is the closest she will find to a father here. Few things in the Circle are unconditional; it is one of the first lessons taught, and it applies to people as well as magic, even if she wishes otherwise.) 

The First Enchanter gestures toward the dark skinned man and the dark haired elf. “This is Duncan and Amdir Tabris of the Grey Wardens. Duncan is recruiting for the war in the south.” 

She looks at them curiously; she has heard and read a lot about Grey Wardens but she has never met one before. They are a mysterious order and also one of the few ways for a mage to leave the Circle completely if recruited. She has heard that the Grand Enchanter used to be a mage of the Circle who left to become a Grey Warden. She thinks it would be a good route for Anders who so desperately wants out, but not perhaps for her. She wants to leave and travel, but she also wants to come home. The Circle is not always kind, but Jowan, Alissa, Elaine, Cullen, and Anders (occasionally) are all here, and she knows that Elaine at least wishes to stay. If she became a Warden, she’s not sure she could come back so easily. 

She stretches a hand forward and bows slightly, “Pleased to meet you.” 

Duncan smiles and Amdir simply nods as they shake her hand. (Amdir will later tell her that he was pretty unimpressed with all the Circle mages when he had arrived. They reminded him of pampered, sleek cats, and he didn’t think they would be able to hack it in the real world, and this included the First Enchanter’s apprentice, wearing nice clean robes and with her short hair in intricate braids. She will smile and point out that her first impression of him was that he was a scruffy, glowering elf whose daggers’ hilts were well worn and whose leather armor still had spots of dried blood on them. In the years to come, he will basically adopt her into his small family, and she will come to Denerim as much for his company as for Alistair’s, and they will laugh about their first meeting) 

“This is your apprentice then, First Enchanter?” Duncan asks, “She seems the capable sort.” 

“She just passed her Harrowing,” the First Enchanter beamed, “Do not get any ideas though Duncan; today is a happy day, and you will not disturb her with talk of the war. Would you mind showing them to the guest quarters, Iluuser?” 

She nods and tells them to follow her. Amdir looks about her age, so she asks him how long he has been a Warden. 

“Technically I’m still not a Warden,” he replies, his voice somewhat scratchy as if from disuse, “I was recruited just a few days ago; apparently there’s a ritual at Ostagar to turn all the recruits into real Wardens.” 

“Where are you from?” 

His mouth twitches down, “Denerim,” he says softly and after that doesn’t talk anymore. In the silence, she asks Duncan about the Wardens, and she gets an impassioned speech about how useful mages could be to the cause (she has to admit, she has never seen anyone not a mage themselves so enthusiastic about mages). 

She opens the door to the guest chambers (dusty but clean; they rarely got guests but the Circle did want to make a good impression on anyone who did arrive), wishes them luck (she mentions that perhaps they should ask to see the dungeons? She hadn’t seen Anders in months; she hoped he was alright; either ways, Grey Wardens could use spirit healers, couldn’t they?), and starts to head back to her new quarters to unpack (the thought of having her own room nearly makes her giddy; she has always lived in a dormitory full of bunk beds, and privacy could only be found by roaming the duller sections of the library while trying to avoid more amorous couples looking for the same thing). 

But before she could get to her room (her very own room!), Jowan hissed at her from a nook in the wall and hastily gestured for her to join him and one of the nicer chantry sister she remembered seeing around (she believes in the Maker, and can recite the Chant, but she does not attend as many services as she should. The sermons are not always pleasant for a mage to hear. The chantry clerics vary in their attitudes about mages, but for the most part she steers clear of them). She goes since it looks urgent and hopes that he isn’t about to ask her more about the Harrowing (she fears for him; there is only one route forward for the mage of the Circle and that is to pass the Harrowing. Anything else means death or tranquility, and quite honestly, she isn’t sure which is worse) 

It’s worse than that; Jowan wants her help destroying his phylactery, and he’s involved with a chantry sister (she had thought that he was involved with someone since she had seen him sneaking in and out of the dorms late at night, but she had assumed it was another mage who was very discreet, not a _chantry sister)_. They’re planning on running away together before the First Enchanter can turn Jowan Tranquil (and this is a real fear, this she knows. Jowan has never been as talented as her or Anders or really, any of their other friends. And she has fought those who have sneered at him, slamming ice spells and sometimes her staff into them, but she cannot deny that his constant smudging of glyphs and arcane bolts that shiver and die do not worry her. They have always been told that the Harrowing isn’t necessarily a test of a mage’s power, but now that she knows what it entails, she fears how he would fare in the Fade) He says the First Enchanter thinks he’s been dabbling in blood magic and that he’s completely wrong; she snorts. Jowan? A blood mage? She dismisses it out of hand; the First Enchanter must be mistaken, must have confused Jowan for someone else. This is the boy she has known since the day she arrived at the Circle, the one who has helped her limp to the infirmary in the early days of battlemage training, the one who has teased her about Cullen while dodging her spells, the one who has snuck food to her during late night study sessions. How could anyone even think that he is a blood mage? 

She smiles at Lily, lightly mocks Jowan (as she always does, and it is kind of funny that he has basically managed to recreate a scenario from one of the trashier of the serials she and Alissa read), and agrees to help. How could she not? She does not want to see Jowan walking around with a brand on his head and all light in his eyes gone, and that or death are the only possible options without this foolhardy plan. (The rumors may be a mistake, but she cannot deny the threat if both the First Enchanter and the Knight Commander have agreed to this. If they are fast and quiet, then perhaps they can be in and out before anyone is any wiser) They need a Rod of Fire to get into the room, so she brightly offers and clears out the storehouse of spiders to get Enchanter Leorah to sign off on the form (if on the way she stops by the First Enchanter’s office and asks a few airy questions about Alissa’s schedule, Elaine’s gardens, Anders’ condition, and the rumors about Jowan, it is only because she can’t believe it. She has seen more than a few of her fellow apprentices over the years transformed into branded lifeless automatons, and she has lit more candles than she likes to remember for the ones who died in their Harrowing, but that cannot be the case for Jowan. Surely the First Enchanter sees nothing in these rumors. And yet, Irving assures her that the rumors are true, and so she steels her resolve and cheerfully waves goodbye to him as she walks out of the door and hands the form over in the storehouse. She has been Jowan’s protector for years, and she will not let some malicious rumor destroy him) 

They break in, a strange Tevinter statue says strange things, and she once again has to help Jowan with a levitation spell (they have done this so many times before, to sneak extra food into the library or rare books out, to annoy Anders, to search for missing socks, that if she doesn’t think about it too much, it feels like just another day). They fight enchanted sentinels and a few deepstalkers that got loose (Lily is surprisingly adept with daggers for a Chantry sister), and then they are in the chilly room where the phylacteries are kept. She watches Jowan smash the red bottle to the ground, making a crimson stain in the ice as her breath spirals in puffs of white above her (she would be tempted to smash her own as well if it was here, but all phylacteries of Harrowed mages are moved directly to the White Spire. That is not the path to escape for her). This is the last peaceful moment that they will have. 

They are met by the First Enchanter, Knight Commander, and a platoon of Templars at the top of the stairs. If she thought Greagoir had been angry before when she had covered for Anders’ escape, this is a completely new level. He has his sword out and pointed at them, he spits out his accusations of blood magic and maleficars, and she doesn’t have to look at Irving to know how disappointed her mentor is in her. She steps forward and argues that Jowan is no blood mage, drawing her magic closer to her side (fighting Templars is hard, but not impossible if you hit them hard and fast, and plus she doesn’t have to win. She just has to give Jowan and Lily enough time to run away), but one Templar marches forward and grabs Lily. Jowan screams in fury and suddenly draws out a knife and stabs himself with it (what?), and there is a huge wall of blood (no no _no)_ slamming into all of the Templars and the First Enchanter. 

“Blood mage,” she breathes as the temperature around her plummets and her hands glimmer with frost (when? _Why?),_ “You _lied_ to me, Jowan.” 

“You said you never did any of that!” Lily yells at him. 

Jowan argues that he had just dabbled a bit (a bit? _A bit?_ Blood magic enough to take on a platoon of Templars is not _a bit)_ and was going to give it up to with Lily, but Lily sobs and tells him to get out of her sight. He begins to run away, and Iluuser throws a freezing spell at him, but he dodges it (of course he does, he’s had enough practice dodging her spells throughout the years) and he’s out of the door and the Circle and she’s left standing there with a sobbing chantry sister and the awakening Templars and First Enchanter (and a rage tinged with despair that claws at her throat and makes the ice growing around her feet sharp as knives. He was her friend; he was her _brother_ , and he had _lied_ and tricked her into helping him. He had made her a _maleficar_ by association; how hard he must have found it to keep his face straight when she had argued about his innocence. But she really had believed in him. How could she be so wrong?) 

The Knight Commander is livid, roaring about letting a blood mage escape and having no way to track him and threatening all of them with the Aeonar (and if it were any other time, if her oldest friend had not just lied to her and betrayed her and abandoned her, she would be terrified. They say that the truly innocent have nothing to fear about the Aeonar, but the Fade is weak there, and her nightmares always include herself as a smiling abomination. If she goes there, there is no guarantee that she will ever return as she is now. But right now, it feels as though she is watching herself from far away, as though someone else is standing there, breaths shallow, eyes unfocused, ice steadily growing from her clenched hands around her staff). She can barely whisper that she really could not have believed that Jowan was a blood mage, and the Knight Commander sneers and asks her if she really thinks that excuses her (oh no, she knows it does not. How has she been so _blind?_ Her oldest friend turns to blood magic, to the point that the whole Circle buzzes with rumors about it, and she doesn’t _know?_ She had thought she knew everything about him.Anders has been locked away, Alissa is always busy, and Elaine has been involved with Robert, but her only excuse is that she had been studying for her Harrowing. When had he turned? How could she not have _noticed?)_

“I stand by my decision; I will recruit this mage to the Grey Wardens.” 

She jerks up and realizes that the Grey Warden Duncan has arrived and was arguing with the Knight Commander and First Enchanter. The Knight Commander angrily refuses, but the First Enchanter seems to like the idea. He gives her a look and a quick flick of his eyes toward Duncan, and she knows the only road forward (she does not want to become an abomination, and there will be time enough on the road with the Wardens to consider how she had failed Jowan so badly and his betrayal of her). 

She steps forward and accepts Duncan’s offer (they say the Maker works in strange ways, and she would laugh if she didn’t feel so hollow. This is not how she wanted to leave the Circle; she had dreamed of happy farewells and a joyous song, not disgrace and exile). The Knight Commander yells at Irving, but the Warden’s Right of Conscription is absolute, and she barely has time to pack a few of her belongings (some robes, a few of Elaine’s potions and poultices, Brother Gentivi’s book, and her ironwood staff, runes carved steadily over the years, with the help of Jowan. He had always been good at delicate work) before she is hurried out of the Tower with Duncan and Amdir. She catches a glimpse of Alissa’s and Elaine’s and Cullen’s bewildered faces (she will forever mourn the fact that she hadn’t been able to say goodbye to any of them before the horrors of Uldred’s madness marked them all), before the door shuts, and she is banished from the only home she has known. 


	4. Trevelyan: Harrowing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Before you ask, there's a bunny because it gets mentioned in DAI, and a bunny demon sounded ridiculous, so this is what we have

Even in Ostwick’s Circle they hear the songs (The Blight had been contained in Ferelden for the most part, and it is difficult for darkspawn to cross the Waking Sea, so no one in Ostwick had actually been that worried yet, but it was still a big deal that Ferelden had managed to end the Blight in only a year) There are rumors and stories galore about the three wardens and their companions who managed to end the Blight; one turned out to be the bastard heir to the throne of Ferelden and was crowned king, one is a city elf who was named Bann of the Alienage of Denerim, and one is a mage who is declared Warden Commander of Ferelden and Arlessa of Amaranthine and whose last name is Amell and whose first name makes Oscar pause and make the bard repeat. She eagerly asks him if that’s his long lost sister, the one sent to Ferelden’s Circle so many years ago. He replies slowly that it is the right name, but perhaps it’s simply another mage who shares the name? She points out the likelihood of there being two Amells with identical names in the Ferelden Circle and urges him to write a letter to her. (There is a lot of business with Ferelden now, so it’s possible if expensive for them to send letters across the Waking Sea) He grimaces and shies away to his own room where later she sees crumpled balls of parchment stained with ink and words. Andi stops her from pestering him, gently pointing out that of all people, she should know how frightening it is to write to family who may or may not reply. 

(But it is different for him; he has Clarice whose letters true, are always terse and read more like reports than letters, but still, they arrive every month like clockwork. And when his mother still lived, he had letters from her, and while true, he doesn’t know his eldest sister, she is a mage. She is unlikely to turn him away for also being one. He has always had family that accepted him; if one of the Heroes of Ferelden was a mage and her long lost sister, she’d—well, she would be overjoyed to be able to reclaim part of her family again.) 

She gathers as many stories and songs as she can, even if none of them quite agree with the other. Some say the king and the mage warden are involved; there are rumors that she is his mistress and the only reason she’s not his queen is because the Landsmeet would not stand for it. Some say one of their companions was an Antivan Crow who was sent to kill them but fell in love with the city elf warden instead. Some insist that it was the other way around and that the Antivan Crow fell in love with the mage, and the king made the city elf a bann because they were lovers. Some sing that no, it was the dark witch of the wilds who the city elf fell in love with and is broken hearted over because no one has seen her since the Archdemon was killed. Others argue that actually, it was the red headed bard who captured the mage’s heart through song and dance, even if her duties take her away. Some are convinced that the reason that the mage warden often travels to Denerim is to rendezvous with her lover, the city elf warden. A few even say that in fact, it was the hornless qunari that either the mage or the city elf or sometimes the witch of the wilds fell in love with. 

Whatever the actual case, the facts are that the mage warden rose from the tragedy at Ostagar to free her circle from abominations and prevent the Rite of Anullment, saved Redcliffe from an undead assault, cured a Dalish clan of a werewolf curse, chose the king of Orzamaar, and helped crown her friend (and maybe more? She is inclined toward this story; it’s more romantic, the ex-templar falling in love with a mage, except they cannot be together except in secret because of his duties to the realm. The assassin story is romantic too, but she likes this one better) as king of Ferelden. Not to mention of course, helping to kill the Archdemon itself. She’s not the only one a little bit starry-eyed; the entire circle buzzes with stories about her, and half of them hum along with the songs written about the Fifth Blight. (It’s just so rare for a mage to be a hero. After all, the story the Chantry in the Circle loves to tell the most is of the magisters ruining the Golden City; this is a much better one, no matter who she actually romanced in the end, because no one can deny that here and now, a mage is a hero.) 

It is nearly a year after the Blight has been ended, and she has long given up on Oscar ever reaching out to his famous sister when he fwaps her over the head with a letter while she is watering her plants. 

“Guess what I have here~~,” he says in sing-song, grinning and inexplicably petting a sleek rook on his shoulder (she chooses to ignore it; it’s probably a new part of his plan to get Andi back somehow) 

She lightly throws one of her gardening gloves at him, “Another love letter from someone who is terrified of Andi’s wrath?” 

He laughs, catching the glove, “ _That_ was last week, and remember to remind me that you still owe me flowers? Or at least you will after this. No, _this,_ dear Lea, is something you have been waiting a long time for.” 

He holds out the letter, and she brushes her hand on her robe as she examines the envelope. It is addressed to Oscar in a neat hand, and it is marked with the seal of the Grey Wardens. 

“No,” she breathes, snatching the envelope from Oscar’s hands, “This isn’t—every time I told you to write to her you would mumble and meander off into the recesses of the tower!” 

Oscar shrugged, “Took me awhile to figure out what to say, and then took a bit longer to figure out how to get a letter to her. Didn’t really want to mention it to you in case—well, in case—” 

“In case she didn’t write back?” she asks fake flippantly, flipping the envelope over (she still writes letters to her family every month even though every letter she has ever sent has been returned with the seal intact), “Have you read it?” 

“Just skimmed it a bit to make sure she wasn’t telling me to fuck off,” Oscar replied cheerfully, “I thought I’d give you the honor of being the first person to actually read it, since if I didn’t, I fear you may attempt to claw my eyes out.” 

“Quite right,” she replies, drawing the letter out and reading it 

_Dear Oscar,_

_I cannot tell you how delighted I am to receive your letter. I was actually unaware that I had family in the Free Marches; I knew that I had come across the Waking Sea, but I was unsure of from where and from who. I remembered a small boy that I played with when I was young, but I was unsure if that was my brother or simply a friend. I am more than happy to find out that that boy must have been you. And you say we have a sister in Markham? And she is called Clarice? Would you mind telling me how exactly to get a letter to her? Or perhaps it would be better for you to tell her so that she may write to me herself if she so chooses?_

_I am sorry to hear that our parents have passed away. I know it was so long ago, but I would have liked to see them again. Do you remember them very well? You mentioned that you were taken to the circle at the age of seven; I understand that that is young but you must remember her better than I do? I have no memories of our father at all, and I barely remember our mother._

_You mentioned that there may be a Hawke family in Ferelden that is also related to us. Oddly enough, we recently received a new recruit named Carver Hawke from Kirkwall into our ranks. His elder sister wrote to me that we happen to be second cousins and to look out for him; these must be the children of the Aunt Leandra you mentioned? I will talk to them and let you know what they say._

_Congratulations on passing your Harrowing! Are you enjoying having your own chambers? I know that is what I was looking forward to the most when I was still there. And of course, now you will no longer have to sneak into closets and quiet corners of the library to spend time with this tempestuous Andi you mentioned (I have lived in a Circle for fifteen years brother, I know how it goes). I would be delighted to meet her and the other friends you mentioned, Marcel and Rasleanne Trevelyan (you are right, it is quite a mouthful. Very pretty to write though). I am of course overjoyed to have more sisters and brothers. And if we are mentioning adopted siblings, then I must inform you dear brother, that in that case, you have a number of siblings you are not aware of._

_~~Jowan~~ _ _Anders is a mage who I considered an older brother back in the Circle, and he has since become a Grey Warden, and now I believe resides in Kirkwall. He is ridiculously fond of cats, is a gifted spirit healer, and has terrible taste in lovers. You may have heard of the Witch of the Wilds who accompanied us during the Blight; her name is Morrigan, and while she has a harsh tongue and some rather brutal ideas, I am proud to call her sister. There is of course Amdir Tabris who you may know as the other Hero of Ferelden and is currently the Bann of the Denerim Alienage. When he feels like it, he accompanies me on expeditions to the Deep Roads, but most of the time he is with Zevran and their quest to topple the Crows. I must mention here that I am sorry to say you have lost your bet with Rasleanne, dear brother; the Antivan Crow Zevran fell in love with Amdir, and they are very happy together. And when I come to visit you (I apologize that it may take some time since we are still in the process of rebuilding), you may be glad to know that I would be hard-pressed to keep Alistair from accompanying me._

_Please write to me soon; this bird has been trained by Leiliana, a dear friend of mine, to return to me. Simply give the bird the letter, and it will find its way to me._

_Eagerly awaiting your reply,_

_Iluuser Amell_

__

It is exactly the kind of letter that she had hoped Oscar would receive when she had begged him to write to her (it’s exactly the kind of letter that she wished—well, she had fantasized more than once of a previously unknown relative reaching out to her. It was a dumb wish; all the Trevelyans have closed ranks against the person who could bring questions about their bloodline, and she has a makeshift family here at the Circle, but—but sometimes she misses her mother. Oh, she always came off as cold and imperious in public, but she had been warm and full of fond advice for her only daughter back when she had not been the disgrace of their entire house. Oscar and Marcel are like brothers, and Andi is like a distant, caustic sister, and she loves them, but—it’s not the same, and she’s not sure if she will ever get used to this feeling) 

“Pay up,” she demands with a smirk, handing the letter back to Oscar, “I win the bet.” 

“No way!” Oscar protests, frantically scanning the letter, “She didn’t actually confirm that she’s the King’s mistress!” 

“She says you lost, and she mentions that the king would be accompanying her on any trip she might make right after she says the Crow is in love with Bann Tabris!” she argues, “It’s definitely implied!” 

“Still not actually confirmed!” Oscar replies, tucking the letter back into the envelope, “I’ll ask her again, make her be more specific. She may not be with the crow, but you don’t win unless she’s actually with the king.” 

She rolls her eyes (she knows she’s right), and turns back to her plants, “You should start winning more at Wicked Grace to cover the five sovereigns you’re going to owe me,” she calls over her shoulder. 

(Iluuser never out and out says it in later letters, simply pointing out the fact that while somewhat vicious, the rook carrying her letters across the Waking Sea could be intercepted, unlike the letters to the king that were carried by a specially trained eagle owl. Beyond that, she avoids the question. Rasleanne argues that obviously Iluuser’s the king’s mistress if her letters to him are under such heavy guard, but Oscar adamantly refuses to pay up unless his sister confirms it, so she resigns to waiting for the day that she will come to visit. They keep making plans, but it’s rather complex since not only is there reconstruction of the Grey Wardens of Ferelden and Amaranthine still going on, but also Iluuser wants to visit Leandra Amell and Saabel Hawke in Kirkwall, and apparently getting the estate set up and ready for visitors is difficult. 

Apparently Saabel Hawke is an apostate mage. None of them can really figure out how an apostate mage has managed to revive a disgraced noble house in the middle of Kirkwall, City of Chains and home to the Gallows and the most hardline Templars this side of the Waking Sea. She is not—she cannot deny that she is jealous, but at the same time, she would not want to be an apostate mage in Kirkwall, even one who has all the freedoms she has long since lost. She wouldn’t want to be any kind of mage in Kirkwall; she may have not known much about it four years ago when she was still the darling of the Trevelyan family, but she has heard stories since then. Knight Commander Meredith is the true ruling power in Kirkwall, and her commands are ironclad. Mages are often confined to their chambers. Affairs among mages, clandestine but commonplace in most Circles, are forbidden and punishable by Tranquility in the Gallows since Tranquility is not just a punishment reserved for those who have not yet passed their Harrowing there. There are whispers of those who have been turned Tranquil simply for the pleasure of the Templars, and she is never more relieved that Oscar’s mother sent all of her children as far away from the Gallows as she could) 

She is seventeen when a Templar named Damian is transferred to Ostwick’s Circle. He has tousled dark hair, a rakish grin, green eyes, and a deep voice that greets her every day when she passes by his station. He offers her small compliments, telling her how pretty she is, and bringing her small wildflowers he picked every once in a while. At first she had simply smiled and flirted a bit back because it was fun, but as time goes by, and he really seems serious (he comes to see her in her patch of the garden, and he always seems to be standing a bit too close and when he helps her up his hand lingers a bit too long, and he murmurs to her that he has never met a girl like her before), she begins to stammer and blush and panic a bit. She’s never—well, obviously she knows all the basics and stuff; she hangs around Oscar and Andi too much for it to be otherwise (the two of them have the unfortunate tendency to forget to _lock the door_. She has taken to loudly knocking anywhere she goes for the sake of her own mental health). She knows how to flirt and how to smile and how to lower her eyes to peer through her lashes and how to purr because these are things taught to all noble girls early in life— but she has never had _feelings_ applied to this. And it is hard to be charming and pretty when it feels like there are an army of butterflies trapped in her stomach and bursting to get out every time Damian strolls over to her in the garden and begs a moment of her time. 

Oscar _hates_ Damian; he goes out of his way to sneak slugs into his armor and rashvine into his smallclothes. He insists that he isn’t to be trusted and that he smells a rat. Andi thinks Oscar is being overprotective, but does pointedly tell her that she doesn’t like Damian (but then again, Andi doesn’t like any of the Templars. Or most people in general for that matter). Marcel actually takes time out of their chess game to look at her and mildly say that he has heard some unsavory rumors about Damian, and that perhaps she should be careful. 

But she thinks she’s in love (that’s what this feeling is, isn’t it? A sense of exhilaration and delight tempered by nervousness and anxiety), and so she lets him hold her hand and kiss her. She doesn’t let it get any further than that, despite his complaints, because she is still an apprentice mage and not yet Harrowed, and she would rather die than become Tranquil. (Oscar sputters and upgrades to trying to sneak extract of blood lotus out of her stores and into his food before she shocks him and retaliates by dumping slime in his hair. Andi yells at both of them, and Marcel just sighs and solemnly hands her a thin book about various contraceptive remedies) 

She is eighteen when she is taken in the middle of the night to her Harrowing. She breathes slowly (in and out, Oscar, Andi, and Marcel have all gone through this and survived, and she has to believe that she will as well) and drinks the potion and wakes up in a palace. The floors are marble, the chandelier is made of crystals that lightly ring in the breeze, and she is wearing a dress made of the finest green silk (she doesn’t remember the last time she’s worn anything besides Circle robes). 

“Looking as lovely as ever, my darling.” 

She whirls around to see a tall man who bears more than a passing resemblance to Damian smiling at her and holding a fluffy white bunny in his hands. 

He offers the adorable ball of fluff up to her, “A gift for my beautiful fiancée?” 

She looks at the rabbit and then slowly back at the man, “You’re joking right?” she asks, glancing around for a staff (she doesn’t see one). 

“Darling, what’s wrong?” the man frowns, walking closer to her, “Are you feeling alright?” 

She quickly lowers her eyes, dips her head, and lets her lips curl slowly into a smile while clenching her hand into a fist behind her back and feeling lightning crackle in it, “I’m sorry, my dear; I don’t know what came over me!” she apologizes, pitching her voice a little higher than usual, “Come and give me a kiss?” 

(The bunny is a nice touch; nothing screams Not A Demon as much as a bunny and who doesn’t like bunnies? But as much as she wants to pet the rabbit, as much as she likes how the dress swishes against her skin, as much as she would like to sink into the Damian look-alike’s arms, she knows this isn’t real. It feels too empty; where are Oscar and Andi and Marcel? Where is her family? Quite honestly, putting her in a room with an adoring crowd would have been more distracting than Damian with a bunny. No, this is only a fragment of a dream) 

The man smiles and draws forward, embracing her with his arms, and she quickly knees him in the groin (first lesson taught by Andi six years ago), and jams her hand filled with lightning into his chest (third lesson taught by Oscar, right after generating just enough static electricity to make a person’s hair stand up on touch and charging a knife with lightning). 

He screams and stumbles back, the bunny dissolving into the air as his hands lengthen into claws and his form grows taller and more monstrous. 

“You’ll pay for that little mage,” he growls, voice rumbling as the hallway around them grows dark and there is a clank of metal as all the suits of armor that line the hall shiver to life and point their swords at her. 

She doesn’t bother to reply, too busy focusing her power to try and create a static cage above the demon (thankfully this isn’t something that requires a staff, although it is easier with one). She sees the flicker of electricity begin to form above the demon, and then she is running at the suits of armor with lightning flowing from her hands, punching and kicking and dodging and shocking as best she can (she generally prefers to hang away from the fray, but with no staff and no knife, Andi’s lessons come in handy). She hears the demon howl and scream when her static cage finally zaps to life (and she swears that she’ll apologize to Oscar for complaining to him when he had made her learn how to do static cages without any focus point but her hands), and suddenly the suits of armor change to Templar armor (odd). She barrels straight into it (did it just make a noise), knees it in the skirt area (bad choice to change into), and abruptly stops as the Templar armor lets out a groan of pain and the First Enchanter is grabbing her by the arm to pull her away. 

“Enough Rasleanne!” the First Enchanter yells, “You’ve passed!” 

She stills and looks around frantically. It’s true; she’s no longer in the marble palace, the walls around her are familiar, and she is surrounded by scowling Templars and an irritated First Enchanter. She glances down at what she now realizes is a groaning Templar bent over and clutching at his nether regions. 

The First Enchanter holds up her hand before she ever manages to say anything. 

“We are never speaking of this again,” she states sternly, and simply pushes into her arms her new robes and ring. 

(This is where she ends the story many years later in the tavern at Skyhold, with all her friends laughing around her. She wishes it ended here too, and Marcel gives her a look, but simply sips his drink and doesn’t comment on what she leaves out) 

Oscar is obviously proud and thrilled for her, producing three bottles of champagne from somewhere and proposing increasingly ridiculous toasts as the night goes on. Andi actually smiles at her and bullies the kitchens into handing over a ton of tiny delectable sweet cakes imported from Orlais (reserved for the First Enchanter usually, but Andi was terrifying and the kitchen staff caved). Marcel still has a book in his lap, but he’s joining Oscar for the toasts and offering his congratulations as well. 

Later that night (Oscar and Andi already gone doing things she’d rather not think about, and Marcel off to his bed of books), drunk on triumph and maybe a bit tipsy from the champagne, she sneaks out, finds Damian, and lets him pull her into a shadowy recess of the Tower and deflower her (in another life, her virginity would have been sacrosanct; noble girls were supposed to be virgins before marriage, but she is no longer a noble, and mages cannot marry, and even if she’s a bit hesitant, she loves him, and he tells her that he loves her as well) 

The next day she writes off the whispers around her as talk of her successful if unconventional Harrowing until a few too many Templars leer at her and there are people sniggering, and she’s not sure what’s going on. 

Unsettled, she hurries over to where Damian is stationed (mornings he always stood guard near the apothecary), and she greets him with a shy smile. 

“Hello Damian,” she says, brushing her black hair out of her face nervously. 

He glances at her and says in almost the most bored tone she’s heard, “Oh. Hey.” 

There is something wrong here (and a sinking sensation in her stomach), but she still persists because his words (what they did yesterday) have to mean something, right? 

“I-I was thinking—do you want to meet later—” 

“Look,” he interrupts her with a sigh, “I appreciate the sovereigns you’ve won me, I really do. But quite frankly, sneaking around all the time gets boring, and it was fun being the first in my class to fuck a noble, but you weren’t that good.” 

(Even years later, when she is Inquisitor and Herald of Andraste, when she has defeated Corypheus and stands triumphant before all, she cringes at this memory. It’s still a gut punch, and she still has to remember to breathe sometimes if she hears that last phrase, even in a completely different context.) 

“I—you said—” she stammers (hating that she’s stammering, hating the words that come out of her mouth, hating that she should have _known)_

He laughs. “I say a lot of things. Don’t feel bad; you’re not the first to fall for it. You did keep me waiting longer than most, but no one else had any luck either with their little noble mages, so that just upped the pot.” 

She can’t take anymore (she thinks that if she stands there any longer the tears hot in her eyes will slip out, or she will vomit from the humiliation that sears so deeply and has sunk to her stomach, and she has no idea which is worse), so she spins away, away from his smirk, away from the malicious murmurs, away from the leers, until she reaches her new private quarters, locks the door with a soft click, wraps herself in her blankets, and lets herself finally begin to sob. 

(He had murmured that she was beautiful, that she was lovely, that he loved her, and she had _believed_ him. Even though he was a Templar, even though she was a mage, even though none of her friends had liked him, he had made her heart sing, and wasn’t that a _stupid_ phrase when all along he had been _laughing_ with his friends and telling them all about the stupid ex-noble mage girl who had believed all the _bullshit_ he had spun. He must be telling them right now about how pathetically eager she had been to see him again and _why? )_

The sun has sunk to cast dappled shadows through her window by the time she hears a soft knock at her door. She ignores it (she’s still hoping that if she wishes hard enough, her bed will somehow become an abyss to swallow her whole), rolling over and pulling the covers more firmly over her head. 

Her doorknob rattles, and then Oscar’s voice, oddly strained, floats through the door. 

“Hey, Lea? Open up please? If you don’t, I’m going to have to break out the lockpicks, and you don’t want that on your nice shiny door, right?” 

She doesn’t want to talk to Oscar (she doesn’t want to see anyone), but Oscar could get in trouble if the Templars see him with lockpicks again, so she trudges over to the door and unlocks it and flops back into her bed. 

“Here to say, ‘I told you so’?” she asks, rolling over and pulling the covers over her head again. 

She feels the bed move as Oscar carefully sits down at her side, “No,” he says quietly. 

They sit there in silence for awhile as Oscar smoothes the blankets around her, and she stares at the bare walls. 

“I loved him,” she says quietly, breaking the silence. 

“I know,” he replies, shoving her flat pillow up a bit. 

“He said—he said he loved me,” she confesses in an even quieter voice. 

His hands clench around the blanket he was trying to smooth around her shoulders, “I know.” 

“I was—it was dumb to believe him, wasn’t it?” she asks. 

“ _No,”_ he says angrily, and she can see that his knuckles are turning white with how hard he’s gripping her blanket, “It wasn’t. You’re not. This is all on him.” 

She laughs weakly, “You don’t have to be nice to me. Of course it was a bet. I should have known.” 

“No; I should have been more convincing about why I didn’t like him instead of just complaining and pranking him,” Oscar says with a sigh, voice devoid of its usual humor, “We managed to convince Andi to not go and kill him. I’d love to see her make him a Walking Bomb, but that’s too obvious and messy. Marcel is…looking up some things. Don’t worry; we’ll make sure he pays for everything.” 

She rolls back to look at him. His mouth is a straight line, his eyebrows are furrowed, his eyes have lost all of their dancing humor, and she’s never seen him look so angry before. 

“You can’t—he’s a Templar—” 

“And he will pay,” he cuts in, tucking back an errant strand of her hair, “Andi will take care of any talk, and you rest.” 

“But—” 

“Don’t worry about it,” he repeats, and then attempts to smile, “Andi will be by a little later with whatever sweets she can terrify the kitchens into handing over to her. Which, given her mood, may be everything they’ve got.” 

They sit in silence for awhile, her staring at the ceiling, and Oscar twirling his dagger around and around in his hand. Eventually, there’s a knock on the door, and a thunderously angry looking Andi comes in, bearing a whole basket of pastries.  
“Well, I’ll leave you guys to it,” Oscar says, standing up and giving her a pat on her shoulder. 

“You’re not staying?” she asks. 

“As much as I’d like to, Marcel needs some help to sort through things, and there’s a few people I need to talk to,” he replies, helping Andi take the plates out of the basket, “But if you need me, Andi can come get me, right?” 

“Right,” Andi says, placing the plates down with enough force that Rasleanne was surprised they didn’t break. 

Oscar waves goodbye, and Andi settles down in his place. She tenses up, waiting for Andi’s inevitable vitriol and disdain (Andi has never been shy with her criticisms, although she probably can’t tell her anything she hasn’t already told herself), but although Andi keeps up a continuous stream of curses under her breath (“Filthy whore-mongering boot-licking _asswipe_ of a Templar, how _dare he_ , should have let me turn him into a fucking _smear_ on the wall, that bastard deserves no less—”), she doesn’t direct any of it at her, simply handing her the pastries and glaring at her until she picked at it. 

“What are Marcel and Oscar doing?” she asks. 

Andi bares her teeth in almost feral glee, “Never you mind, but it’s going to be good. Almost worth not wiping that blighted, Maker-forsaken _piece of shit’s_ smirk off with a Walking Bomb.” 

(She can’t deny that that doesn’t sound appealing) 

Their forks clatter against the plate as Andi continues her murmur of curses ( _“Whoreson!”_ ), until she can’t take it anymore, and sets her fork down and turns to Andi. 

“You might as well let it out now,” she says wearily, “Go ahead, tell me. I’ll even get you started: I was an idiot to get involved with a Templar in the first place.” 

Andi looks at her, chews her lip for a bit, and then finally says, “I’m not going to say it wasn’t dumb for you to get involved with a Templar, that’s true. On the other hand, if I had thought that shitstain was just using you to win a bet, I would have stuffed that maggot-spawn in a Crushing Prison the minute I saw him sniffing around you.” 

She places a few pieces of cinnamon infused bread on her plate and glares at her, “Eat; I will not have you wasting away because of some cursed _boy.”_

She takes a tentative bite of the bread (it is one of her favorites, and crying does tend to make her feel hollow and hungry), and glances at Andi who is scowling and viciously stabbing at a small, frilly cake as though it was the bane of all of her problems. 

“Thanks,” she says. 

Andi looks at her, shrugs, and takes a bite of her cake, “Thank me when we win, not before.” 

She’s tempted to hide for a few more days (or maybe a few years; maybe everyone will have forgotten by then), but if she hides, he wins, so she brushes her long, dark hair, puts on her new robes, applies her makeup, and looks herself in the eye in the mirror and breathes. (She is Rasleanne Trevelyan, she is her mother’s daughter even if she’s been disowned, she is a mage of the Circle, and she will not be brought down by this) 

She walks through the Circle with her head held high and her back straight (“You are a Trevelyan, my dear, and we do not slouch. It takes more than simply a bad day or our health to make us bend.”) There are a few whispers, but Andi really does seem to have taken care of most of the gossip, and for everything else she manages to pretend to not understand what they’re implying and simply go about her day (she avoids everywhere Damian is likely to be; her façade of calm can’t take that right now) 

Everything goes more or less back to normal; she’s a mage now, not an apprentice, so less time is spent in class and more time in the garden, which is nice. She manages to avoid Damian and his friends like the plague (she’s gotten very good at slipping away at a moment’s notice, and it helps that Andi’s cursing alerts her way before any of them appear). Oscar and Marcel keep odd hours now though; Marcel has books open that look oddly like trade agreements to her, and Oscar appears and reappears randomly. 

She is still quietly puttering around the gardens and making a brave show of nonchalance during Circle meetings when the qunari invasion is repelled by Saabel Hawke, and the mage is named Champion of Kirkwall. Oscar laughs ruefully at how many famous relatives he has now (“At this rate, I’m going to wake up to hear that Clarice has been named Grand Enchanter for heroics”), and shows her a few letters that his sister has written about crossing the Narrow Sea soon. About a week before she is supposed to visit (Iluuser planned to first visit Kirkwall to offer Hawke both her congratulations and her condolences for her mother’s death, then Ostwick, then Markham), she figures out what Oscar and Marcel have been plotting. 


	5. Amell: The Joining

Despite the fact that she has left the Circle is disgrace and her oldest friend is a bloodmage, she can’t help being fascinated by their surroundings. The farthest she has ever gone from Kinloch Hold in her fifteen years there is the shores of Lake Calenhad, so to be walking steadily down a dirt road with the wind breezing through her hair, birds chirping in trees, and sunlight on her skin makes her a bit giddy. Even if they got attacked by a pack of hungry wolves once, and a bear another time, it was still nice, and she had raised an ice wall and managed to hit the bear square on the nose with her staff. Amdir had looked at her with surprise, and after he had managed to dispatch the bear by stabbing in the neck, he had been much friendlier; he was still quiet, but he was less likely to give one word answers now. The fourth time she spins around in a circle sparking random ice runes in the air on the road (because she can, there’s no one here to reprimand her for careless use of magic), Amdir asks bemusedly if she’s ever been outside before. 

“Never for so long,” she replies honestly, “When I was little, I think we had a trip to the shores of Lake Calenhad once. Lasted a whole day; we went back at night.” 

“Seriously?” Amdir asks incredulously. 

She nods, “This is the farthest I’ve been since I arrived.” 

“How long were you there?” 

“Fifteen years,” she replies with a small smile (it wasn’t all sunshine and roses, but fifteen years is a long time, and it’s the only home that she has known) 

He nods, and since he seems to be in a talkative mood (rare, but most of the time it’s somewhat relaxing since in that respect, he reminds her of Elaine) she asks, “What is Denerim like?” 

He lets out a small huff of laughter, “I’m probably not the person you want to ask about this; you’re thinking of grand mansions and sweeping cathedrals, but I lived in the alienage.” 

She pauses (of course he did; she may have not left the tower since she arrived, but she does know how it goes. Alissa was a servant in Orlais before she was found to be a mage, and she never wanted to talk about her time there. But there were a few mages from alienages around Ferelden as well, and some of them had badly missed home, so she wasn’t sure exactly where the alienage in Denerim fell) 

“You still must have seen more of the city than me,” she says lightly. 

Amdir considers her for awhile and then says, “Denerim is big; there’s lots of markets and people and noise. If you go near Fort Drakon, there’s all the pretty noble estates and fine chantries. Further down the hill though, need to watch your purse closely, and most of the roads are dirt. Alienage is at the bottom, and we’re overcrowded, but we still have the _vhenadahl_ in the center.” 

“Do you miss it?” she asks. (During the day, she can almost forget that she has been banished since there is so much to see. Night is the worst for her. For years she has bedded down in the apprentice dormitories, and she is used to chatter and the smell of stone and water lulling her to sleep. Amdir is quiet, and Duncan isn’t all that talkative either, so going to sleep feels strange in the silence) 

He shrugs, “Sometimes Didn’t exactly have a choice about leaving.” 

“Why did you leave?” 

He looks at her for awhile as though weighing his options, glances at Duncan ahead, and then smirks, “I killed the bann’s son. Plus some of his guards.” 

She blinks. On the one hand, that’s shocking (besides the few battlemage instructors, the other bloodied battlemages tended to travel with the king’s army, not spend time in the tower). On the other, Grey Wardens are notorious for recruiting into their ranks criminals of all sorts, and she can hardly talk, being branded a maleficar (arguably worse than a murderer; she’s still considering it) 

There are many things she wants to ask (Why did Duncan intervene? How did he even get in? She’s seen him move fast and sure with the wolves and the bears, but was he that good with those knives that he could kill that many trained guards by himself?) Still, there is only one truly relevant question here: 

“Why?” 

He is silent for the time it takes to get to a clearing that Duncan has chosen as their campsite, and for Duncan to wander off to find a place where he could coax the messenger rook to take off, before he finally replies quietly, “We were having a wedding. Vaughn and his men came; they took my cousin, the bridesmaids, and the brides. My other cousin Soris and I fought our way through the estate to get them back. Vaughn offered me money to let him keep them, and I killed him.” 

“I’m glad you killed him,” she says honestly to him as they gather wood for the fire, “Was everyone you saved okay?” 

(There were people in the Tower, some mages, some Templars, some part of the chantry, who everyone knew were not safe to be alone with. The Knight Commander ran a tight ship, but that did not always deter some. Sometimes they would be caught and brought to justice. And sometimes it was their word against the victim’s and not enough proof. But in that case, they should watch their back, because accidents happened in the infirmary, on the balconies, in the training ground, and people in the Tower tended to have long memories and close connections) 

He looks at her as she snaps her fingers to create a spark of lightning to strike the wood at the right angle to set in aflame (it’s another odd thing that no one is ribbing her about her inability to summon fire; it was a running joke in the Tower, but neither Duncan or Amdir seem to find it strange) 

“As well as can be expected,” he replied, poking at the growing fire with a stick, “Most of the girls had been left alone, but—well, Shianni is strong. I believe in her; she’s my cousin, and it’ll takes more than some blighted shem to break her.” 

“I’m sorry,” she offered (as trite as that sounded), “May the Maker watch over her. Still, the grooms must have been overjoyed when you and your cousin returned with everyone?” 

“Grooms?” he asked, puzzled and then snorted, “Oh—me and my cousin were the grooms.” 

“You were going to be _married?”_ she asked incredulously, “Then are you and your fiancée still…?” 

He shifted uncomfortably, “It was an arranged marriage,” he explained, “I’d never met the girl before that day, so calling it off wasn’t a big deal. I feel bad that she has to travel all the way back to Highever though.” 

“Did you not like her?” she asked, raising an eyebrow 

Amdir fiddled with the knives strapped to his back, “She was fine; she was really nice, and I’m sure she’ll make someone a fantastic wife. I’m just—not…” 

“Interested?” she suggested, unrolling her tent. 

“Yes. And that’s not something that ‘eventually goes away,’” he muttered as if to himself. 

She nodded as she tried to put the tent together. (Anders was interested in both men and women, and his taste in both ran toward brunettes who were terrible for him. Elaine had had lovers of both genders, and even though she preferred women, she had had a soft spot for Robert. She herself preferred men, but she would not deny that her gaze sometimes lingered on Alissa a little too long. The mages of Kinloch Hold rarely cared; they were already cursed in the sight of the Maker, what was one more sin to add to the list?) 

Amdir gave a huff of exasperation as her tent fell apart again and moved over to help her. 

“Can’t you magic this up?” he asked, deftly tying together the sticks. 

“If I knew how it went together better, maybe,” she replied, draping the cloth over it, “I’ve never had to use a tent before.” 

“I’ve lived in Denerim my whole life,” he pointed out, unrolling his tent, “Neither have I.” 

“That I don’t believe,” she comments as he quickly assembles his tent. 

“There _may_ have been some playacting about being Dalish when I was younger,” he admits with a rueful grin, “We never had an actual tent though, so this is actually much easier.” 

“I expect we’ll get rather good at it one way or another, even me,” she says lightly, poking her wobbly tent. 

He chuckled, “So, what about you? Leave any pining paramours behind at the Circle?” 

“No,” she automatically responded, but then lightly touched the book that stayed in her pack despite the extra weight, “There was someone I…was fond of, but we’ve never…he’s an honorable man, so nothing would probably have ever happened anyway.” 

“Honorable, hm?” he asks, raising his eyebrows, “As in, he would have been taking advantage if he had? So…a Templar then? Or a visiting noble?” 

“An honorable mage wouldn’t take advantage of an apprentice either,” she replies primly, “Unlike some people…but yes, a Templar. He was kind.” 

“Kind; that sounds nice,” he comments, unsheathing his knives and beginning to methodically clean them. 

“He was,” she says simply, sitting down next to him and flicking the dust off of her robes. 

Amdir takes out a whetstone and begins to sharpen his knives while she added some wood to the fire. After a while he cleared his throat. 

“Besides that mage that ran away—you had other friends, right?” 

She smiles wryly looking at the fire, “Yes, I did, although… there was someone in the dungeons I wanted you guys to see, but…well, I rather mucked that up didn’t I?” 

“The dungeons? You have a habit of making friends with mages that end up imprisoned?” Amdir asked, looking up from his knives. 

She lets out a short laugh, “I’ll have you know Elaine is one of the most rule abiding apprentices in the Circle I know,” she said, running her fingers down the runes of her staff, “Alissa…sometimes can be a little bit too enthusiastic about innovations to spirit healing, but her heart is in the right place. Anders has already run away six times, and he’ll probably try for seven soon. Jowan—I didn’t expect.” 

“If you knew what you know now, would you have helped him?” he asks. 

She rubs her hands together, not looking at him, “I don’t know,” she admits, “I met him when I first arrived at the Circle; we grew up together, and it’s hard to imagine life without him. Even now.” 

Amdir looks down, “I know what you mean,” he said quietly as he finished polishing his knives. 

Duncan reappeared from the woods with a brace of hares, and Amdir helped in dressing the hares while she roasted the flesh carefully over the fire. She prompts Amdir for stories about his cousins to break the silence over their meal, and Amdir surprisingly obliges, grinning over a tale of how when they were children and had played knights and dragons, Shianni had ordered him to play the dragon, Soris to play the princess, and claimed the role of hero knight for herself. Duncan also contributes, telling tales about his time with the Wardens, mentioning a hotheaded elven mage he once knew who got in all kinds of trouble, and more recently, going to a tourney honoring the Grey Wardens, and the trouble he got in with the Grand Cleric when he recruited one of the Templars in training. 

And so it continues across the days it takes them to travel to Ostagar. She tells some of the funnier stories about her time in the Circle that don’t include Jowan (mostly the beginning of Anders’ terrible crush on Karl, complete with him setting things on fire accidentally around him), Amdir listens mostly in silence with a small grin on his face, but he can also be prompted for a few stories of his own (mostly Shianni bossing him and Soris into various situations that one time involved Soris having to crossdress), and Duncan always has a tale or two about his journeys. Nights are still hard for her (and baths in cold streams are unpleasant, but at least she’s clean), but at least she can forget about Jowan and maleficars while she is listening to their tales. 

Ostagar has more people bustling around than she has ever seen in her life. There are platoons of clanking knights, tents set up everywhere, fires burning, shouting, and mabari barking. A blonde man in golden armor surrounded by guards comes to greet them, and she sees Amdir jaw clench when they find out that this is King Cailan. The king is oddly informal and friendly; he is very enthusiastic about the coming battle and is excited that another mage has joined the Wardens. He asks Amdir about the alienages, and Amdir with a completely straight face informs him that he killed the arl’s son for raping his friend. The king is astounded, Duncan looks put-upon, Amdir looks very pleased with himself, and she disguises her nervous giggle with a cough (in later years, this becomes a very common occurance. At formal dinners at Denerim, Amdir will never fail to inform nobles to their face about conditions of the alienage and of exactly how unimpressed he is of all of them, and she will try not to let her smile grow. Arl Eamon will look somewhat murderous, and occasionally she has to cast illusion spells so that the nobles do not see their king bent over with laughter. Given that illusions are not really her area of expertise, half the time she just makes sure that she is standing near Alistair so she can step in front of him if Amdir manages a particularly scathing remark, or given that Alistair is taller than her, lightly push him into a corner until his laughter subsides). 

Duncan tells them to go find Alistair, the Templar recruit he mentioned, and so the two of them wander into the camp. There are merchants, soldiers, Ash warriors, and a giant kennel of mabari. They wander over to take a look, and the kennel master asks them to be on the lookout for a flower to help cure a sick hound, and she readily agrees. (She likes mabari; the Circle has never permitted pets, but when she was small, and they had gone on a trip to the shores of Lake Calenhad, the kennel master had been exercising a pack there, and she had had a grand time running around with them.) 

While walking further into the camp and narrowly avoiding a collision with a dark haired, scowling farmboy with a giant broadsword strapped to his back, she notices the mages gathered in a small circle and a familiar, white haired mage among them. She greets Senior Enchanter Wynne before she can stop herself, so happy to see a face she recognizes among the crowd, before remembering that perhaps she shouldn’t draw attention to herself given the circumstances of her departure. (The Senior Enchanter has been around for as long as she can remember. She always travels and comes back with the most interesting stories, and no one has inspired her as much too continue on in her studies to become a battlemage just so she could also travel like her. But, Wynne is also close friends with the First Enchanter, and she fears what he might have written to her) Still, Wynne greets her with a smile, and seems unaware of recent news from the Circle since she tells her she is surprised the First Enchanter let his prized apprentice join the Wardens. She simply smiles and tells her that she was surprised as well (well, she was), and Amdir points out that they still need to find Alistair, and she whispers her thanks to him as they leave. He shrugs and points out a reddish-blonde man arguing with a mage; he matches the description Duncan gave them, so they walk over. 

The mage storms off in a huff, and Alistair turns to greet them. 

(Alistair will claim later that he fell in love with her at first sight. She will laugh and point out that he is a romantic, but she’s pretty sure his first reaction to her was that here was another mage come to argue with him, and why is the elf next to her in such a bad mood. For herself, she was simply glad that he didn’t seem to know how she had been recruited, and that he was a friendly ex-templar. The fact that he was attractive didn’t escape her attention, but the fact that he made her laugh was better. He will grin and affectionately stroke her hair and ask her who the romantic one now is?) 

Introductions are made, Alistair tells them that they could help him find the other new recruits, and she asks him how he has liked being a Grey Warden. As he cheerfully extolled how much better being a Warden was compared to being a Templar recruit, she gradually relaxes (she had a been a bit worried when Duncan had mentioned him, but a friendly Templar is welcome, familiar territory. Amdir also loses a bit of his glower as they realize that despite Alistair’s posh accent, he doesn’t act like the younger son of a noble family that they had assumed he was). They find Daveth and Ser Jory, and Amdir seems to instantly take a liking to the other rogue, trading laconic pickpocketing advice once he hears how Daveth had been recruited. In the meantime, she is stuck smiling politely at Ser Jory’s incredulity that a woman was allowed to join the Wardens (inwardly, she wondered if a girl had walloped him over the head in the past, and he had just repressed the memory because what a stupid question. The most difficult battlemage instructor she ever had was the dreadlocked female Senior Enchanter Curtis who didn’t have a single scar because her favorite trick was to incinerate all opponents who got within three feet of her. Her idea of a warmup exercise was to rain an inferno down on them, and once they had more or less managed to get out of that in one piece, it was time for the real training that tended to involve all sorts of acid traps, fire mines, crushing prisons, bears, and in one memorable instance, an acid-spitting wyvern imported from Orlais.). 

They make their way back over to Duncan, who informs them that Alistair will be leading them into the Kocarri Wilds to gather darkspawn blood for the Joining and to look for old Grey Warden treaties. She’s somewhat suspicious about gathering blood for a ritual (hasn’t blood magic caused her enough trouble already?), but Ser Jory’s complaints make her smile wider and urge them toward the gate faster. 

They don’t take more than fifty steps into the Wilds before they run into darkspawn. They are grotesque, with mouths that are drawn up in nightmarish smiles, and she slams an ice spell into the first one before she even really thinks about it. The others draw their weapons, and so they fight their way through the desolate swamp, with her spinning her staff in practiced arcs, launching ice spells and arcane bolts and sometimes simply bashing her staff directly into darkspawn that get too close, leaving sizzling runes that explode on them. (This is the first time she has been in actual battle outside the practice ring, and despite the fact she has blood on her robes and skin, there is a bit of a thrill of finally being able to cut loose and take down opponents. She can’t say it isn’t satisfying to see all the darkspawn dead, and all of her companions still standing) 

Alistair compliments her and asks her about her training, and she begins to tell him the story of Senior Enchanter Curtis and her training exercises from the Void, and he laughs incredulously and tells her about his most hated Templar instructor who was also the choir director. Between gathering blood and checking the map to see if they are close to where the treaties should be, Amdir points out a flower growing on a log that matches the description of the one the kennelmaster was looking for, and they quickly pick it and carefully put it in her pack. They reach the abandoned temple where the treaty is supposed to be, but the chest they find looks empty. 

“Well, well, well, what have we here?” 

A dark-haired woman, wearing the oddest clothing she has ever seen steps out from behind the pillars and languidly down the stairs, demanding to know what they are doing here. By the staff on her back, she looks to be an apostate (and she must be skilled to have been able to grow up here. She has heard tales of the Witches of the Wilds most of her life; they are a common story that the older mages like to use to frighten the children into going to bed, and she herself has also used it, swearing up and down that if the latest class of ten year olds did not go to bed _right now_ , she was going to dump them all in the Wilds and let them fend for themselves, but she had not expected to find one the first time she’s ever wandered into the Wilds). Amdir has his hands on his daggers, and Alistair is frantically whispering to her that they shouldn’t say anything since there may be other Chasind nearby. The woman mocks the idea while Daveth trembles at the idea of being turned into a frog by a witch of the Wilds. (Unlikely, seems a lot of effort when if she wanted them gone there were much easier things than shapeshifting). The woman dismisses his concerns as idle fancies, and asks for her name, since apparently women do not cower like little boys (she somewhat agrees, although to be fair, she’s a mage who can fire spells back unlike the others). She replies with her name since she sees no harm in it (politeness never harmed anyone, something Anders had never learned despite years of her hissing at him to be quiet or stamping on his foot), and the woman smiles and says that she is called Morrigan. 

Alistair accuses her of taking the treaties, and Morrigan replies that she isn’t the one who has them, but her mother does. She asks her if she can take them to her mother, and Morrigan smiles and compliments her on her politeness. Alistair grumbles at her side (“First it’s ‘ _I like you,’_ then zap, frog time.”), and Daveth is still terrified about being turned into a frog, but they follow her to her mother’s hut, although she notices that Amdir does not take his hands from his daggers the entire time (she may have let some ice creep up her skin to shield her; she’s excited to meet a witch of the Wilds, but she would be stupid to not take precautions). 

Morrigan’s mother is vague and doesn’t entirely make sense (Amdir gives her frequent glances that convey the depth of his incredulity, and Alistair is not even bothering to hide his disbelief), but she does have the treaties and hands them over while making more cryptic comments. She tells Morrigan to show them the way out of the Wilds, and she is thankful for the other mage’s guidance because it is getting dark and she would prefer to not accidentally take a swim in the swamp. 

They get back to the camp, and she quickly hurries to the kennelmaster with the flower, and he thanks her profusely (and she gets to pat a few of the mabari on their heads). She hurries back to where Alistair and the warden recruits are gathered, just in time to hear Ser Jory complain more about all the secrecy surrounding the Joining (she’s not sure what he was expecting. The Grey Wardens are a mysterious order, and plus, what order didn’t have some super secret initiation ritual?) Daveth tells him off, and then Duncan arrives with a chalice full of darkspawn blood and explains exactly what the Joining entails, and she grimaces (more blood magic; it seems to dodge her step even though she wants nothing to do with it). Both her and Amdir look on in horror as Daveth drinks first and writhes in pain and falls, and Jory panics, draws his swords, and gets cut down by Duncan. Duncan offers the chalice to her, and she shares a glance with Amdir. They both know there is only one road forward (and she _will not_ die here; she has barely traveled a few days beyond the Tower, she has not yet found Jowan, and there is still so much she yet wants to do), so she takes the chalice and drinks. 

The blood is bitter and burning and foul, but it is nothing compared to the whispers that invade her mind and the strange, twisting, clawing pain that consumes her body. She sees a blight infected dragon roaring before she falls into darkness. The next thing she knows, she’s opening her eyes as Duncan welcomes her into the order, Amdir lets out a sigh of relief, and Alistair is helping her to her feet with a grin. Duncan hands Amdir the chalice, she gives him what she hopes is a reassuring smile (her body feels shaky, as though it has just recovered from a fever, the whispers are still at the edge of her thoughts, and she suddenly feels like she could eat a five course meal but at least she’s still alive and standing), and he takes it with a mock salute and drinks. He grimaces and clutches his head (the whispers happen to everyone then) and falls down. She rushes over as Duncan checks his pulse and announces that he has survived (thank the Maker. She hasn’t known him very long, but she has lost too many people in a period of just a few days, and she would have been sorry to see him go). She helps him up, Alistair congratulates him, and Duncan hands them amulets with a drop of the darkspawn in them, and tells them that they need to go meet with the king. 

(When she is Warden-Commander, she tries to make sure that food is prepared far in advance whenever there are new recruits, and that those who do not survive the Joining get a solemn burial service, while those that do survive get a loud, joyous feast where they can ask whatever questions they wish. She knows of course, why their Joining went the way it did, but it would have saved them all a lot of trouble in the long run if they had known all the important Grey Warden secrets as soon as they had been inducted.) 

The king and Teyrn Loghain are arguing when they arrive, but break off when they notice them. The king congratulates her and Amdir and assigns the two of them and Alistair to light the beacon of the Tower of Ishal (she will wonder later, if she should have supported Alistair in his protests, or even Amdir in his flat looks of disdain. Then again, what would that have done, except guaranteed all of their deaths?) And so, the Battle of Ostagar begins for them (and this is the last she will see of most of the people standing around the war table). 


	6. Trevelyan: The Meeting

A few weeks before Iluuser Amell is due to arrive, she pieces it together. There have been increasing delays in the lyrium shipments, to the point that the Templars have to begin rationing it out much more strictly. The first to get cut off are the newest recruits since they need less and do not have as many duties (this happens to include Damian and his friends). This isn’t so bad until the delays start to get longer and longer, to the point that there is a stretch of about two months where no lyrium shipments come, and the infirmary is full of Templars sweating and raving, in full withdrawal mode. No one has died yet, but at the rate things are going, they may soon. 

She doesn’t suspect a thing despite the seeming lack of dire retribution that both Oscar and Andi had promised (Andi had caused quite a bit of chaos throughout the tower, terrifying sentry guards with absolutely monstrously modified and enlarged spiders, setting fire to a great deal of Templar laundry, and making roads leading up to the tower slick with ice). Oscar had helped in the grand bonfire of Templar laundry, so she had supposed that that was it (was it enough? She still felt raw if she caught a glimpse of him, and even though the complaints and sheer irritation that the lack of clean clothing had caused brought a smile to her face, it—she was still quietly sweeping up the pieces of her stupid heart. Oh, she knew she could also retaliate. She’s hardly helpless; she’s helped Oscar on most of his escapades for seven years, so she knows the passages of the Circle well, and how to trap a Templar in a static cage if she so wished. She cannot deny that the giant, mutant flesh-eating flower enchanted from a rare flytrap from Seheron was created out of her rage against him, that often she pets her giant plant and dreams of his head getting violently chomped off by it, but in the end, she wants nothing more than to be able and go back and shake herself before she could fall in love with him. Barring that, she’ll settle for never seeing him again and hoping that one day the memory of him will stop making her want to throw lightning at things. So far, given the number of smoking, broken practice dummies in the training grounds, the memory hasn’t faded) 

She chalks up Oscar’s constant disappearances to preparations for his famous sister (maybe a prank filled tour?), until one day she finds Marcel asleep over a pile of books. This happens often enough, so she puts a blanket over him, and tries to move some of the books under his arms away. As she manages to pry them away, she notices that they look like ledgers, and that the spindly handwriting across the pages looks like Marcel’s. Curious (after all, she’s never known Marcel to keep any kind of diary), she opens one of them and sees carefully annotated maps of routes from Orzamaar, Carta holdings, and inventories of lyrium. 

She quickly flips through the rest of the ledger, seeing letters written to the Chantry (swiped either from the Knight Commander’s desk or the rooks themselves), and letters written to the carta (where all the lyrium was going; Oscar and Marcel seemed to be getting no money from this, just a lack of interest in who the carta’s mysterious benefactors were). 

(This is stupid. Worse than that, it’s _dangerous._ The Chantry is very protective about its lyrium supply, the carta is a tricky thing with knives and assassins, and if the Templars find out, they are _dead)_

She carefully closes the ledger and slams it next to Marcel. 

“You want to tell me why you and Oscar are dealing in the _lyrium_ trade, Marcel?” she hisses as he scrambles awake. 

He glances at the ledgers then at her and sighs. 

“I suppose it’s a miracle we managed to keep it from you this long anyway,” he says, carefully rearranging the pile of ledgers and books around him, “Oscar was convinced that you wouldn’t find out, but Oscar usually overestimates himself anyway.” 

“What are you guys _doing?”_ she demands, “This isn’t screwing with the pipes of the First Enchanter’s bathroom; this could get you guys _killed._ What is Oscar thinking—” 

“Oscar didn’t come up with the idea; I did,” Marcel said calmly, stacking a few atlases on top of his ledgers, “Andi simply wanted to kill that bastard; Oscar and I wanted to see him _suffer._ Oscar had some ideas that involved severe rashvine poisoning, but I thought this would be more…appropriate.” 

“More appropriate,” she repeated, “Half the Templars are in the infirmary, some of them may die, and you think that’s _appropriate?”_

Marcel waved a hand dismissively, “No one’s dying; I’ve been keeping an eye on the infirmary. So far it’s just the newest recruits that are in critical condition, and it’s that bastard and his friends that are the worst off. We were going to make sure a shipment arrived as soon the bastard can no longer remember his own name.” 

(She’s not even sure what to say; she hates Damian, despises him, is very glad that all of her friends never use his name, and in Andi’s case, keep giving him longer and longer filthy epithets, but this? Driving him to madness? She planted, fertilized, watered, enchanted, named, and painstakingly tended to a flesh-eating plant while entertaining happy thoughts of various parts of his bodies getting mauled and eaten by her creation, but she balks at madness. It is—it is cruel, and she may have a hard time seeing people she doesn’t know well as anything other than chess pieces, and she may wish him dead, and she may wish his friends that he laughed with to drop dead as well, but madness is a step too far. And there are others, Templar recruits who probably had nothing to do with the bet that are laid up in the infirmary as well, and they do not deserve that.) 

“You’re going to tell Oscar to stop and let the lyrium shipments resume,” she says steadily, glaring at him when he opens his mouth to protest, “No, seriously Marcel, you are. Thank you for trying to punish—that guy, but I’m not having you and Oscar get caught. You’re lucky that Andi hasn’t found out yet.” 

Marcel snorted, straightening out the rest of his ledgers, “You think Andi’s been pulling all those pranks just for kicks?” 

“No,” she said as her stomach sank (she had thought Andi had been flashier than usual; Andi preferred to terrify people around her into submission through the use of her sharp tongue, death glares, and the knowledge and willingness to hit hard in people’s soft spots. Summoning spiders had always been more of Oscar’s thing), “She didn’t—she isn’t that stupid— _why?”_

Marcel sighed, “She wanted to see that bastard burn as much of as the rest of us. In addition, it’s not that much of a stretch for Andi to go on a one woman chaos spree. The distractions she has provided has been essential; setting the laundry on fire was what gave us enough time to shift the first shipment.” 

She shakes her head, “This is too much—you’re—all of you are risking far too much for this—” 

“No,” Marcel said firmly, placing a hand on her shoulder, “You are one of ours, Lea. We would risk much more if it meant we could undo the hurt he has done to you. And tell me, if it were me, or Oscar, or Andi, would you not do the same?” 

“That’s not—Oscar and Andi are ridiculously in love no matter how many times she tries to light him on fire, and you’re in love with the library,” she replies, looking away (but she would. She’d challenge the Knight Commander himself to a duel if he had ever humiliated them the way she had been. Her old family is gone, no matter how many letters she sends, so she will fight tooth and nail for the closest thing she has left) 

“Be that as it may, I know you would at least try to feed the offending party to your garden,” Marcel says with a small smile as he brushes the dust from his fingers from her shoulder, “But no point in having you angry and worried for us when that bastard has pretty much puked up everything that he has ever eaten. I’ll tell Oscar, and I’ll write to our contacts.” 

“The carta will just let you guys stop?” she asks worriedly (she had always heard it was a cutthroat business, literally) 

Marcel shrugs as he takes out some parchment, “We always had the understanding that this was a temporary arrangement. It shouldn’t be too much trouble—” 

The door to the library banged open, and Andi rushed in, nearly tripping over her robe in her haste to get over to them. 

“Shit, shit, _shit,_ Marcel,” she said, frantically, shoving the books on the desk aside, “You got to come help—scratch that, you coming won’t help, _shit. Fuck,_ what the hell are we going to do? _”_

“What is going on?” she demanded, grabbing Andi by the shoulder to make her stop pacing back and forth. 

Andi glanced at her, “Did you tell her—doesn’t matter now. Oscar’s been caught.” 

“ _What?”_ Marcel asked sharply, knocking his chair back as he stood up, “How?” 

“He was up in the aviary—they must have had someone keeping watch, and they saw him swipe the letter from the Chantry, and— _goddamnit!”_ Andi whirled around and slammed her fist against the table, scattering Marcel’s letters. 

“But they only saw him take it? They don’t have anything else?” Marcel persisted, ignoring the flurry of papers. 

“I—I think so, but Marcel, this is _bad,_ Oscar could—you didn’t see the Knight Commander’s _face_ , it wasn’t pretty, and the First Enchanter didn’t look happy either,” Andi said, frantically running her hands through her red curls, nearly tearing them out, “They took him to the First Enchanter’s office—I don’t know what they’re going to do—” 

“I’ll go ask around,” she interrupts (she’s never seen Andi this distraught, and it scares her, and she needs to do _something_. It may be Oscar and Marcel’s stupid idea, but if she hadn’t been so stupid in the first place, Oscar wouldn’t be in this mess), “Senior Enchanter Threnhold owes me some favors, and Enchanter Lavoisier can perhaps also be convinced if I mention that I can get him more glassware from the storehouses—” 

“Please,” Marcel said, as he hurriedly began gathering all his papers and ledgers, “I need to burn everything before they think about coming to look for hard evidence—please do what you can, Lea. Andi, give me a hand; you’re better at fire spells than me, and we have a lot to burn.” 

Andi let out a breath, and although from the clench of her jaw she could tell that there was nothing Andi wanted to do so much as hurry down to the First Enchanter’s office and probably blow down the doors with the fire spells that Marcel wanted, but she started to help Marcel gather up the many papers as well. 

“Make sure you burn them somewhere where the smoke can go away, maybe the kitchens,” she reminds them as she hurries away. 

If ever there was a true test of how well she has managed to spin her web of connections, it is now. Through Oscar’s mulish insistence that he was only up in the tower swiping the letter because he thought it would be funny, and Marcel and Andi sending all the ledgers and incriminating letters up in flame, there really exists no hard evidence that Oscar had anything to do with the missing lyrium, but a two month drought of no lyrium is no joke, and the Knight Commander has been both humiliated and harried by the whole affair, and so he is determined to hold onto the only lead he has and get to the bottom of things. It is only because she holds fast to Senior Enchanter Threnhold’s obligation to her (by quietly reminding him that she could easily inform the Templars of his unauthorized excursions into the city proper that tend to result in all those nasty diseases that he needs so many of her poultices for), and because Enchanter Lavoisier really really needs someone to get him new glassware as replacement for the entire shipment that he manages to break with his constant obscure experiments, and because even with the whole humiliating affair with Damian, she has enough standing and clout with the rest of the Enchanters that they block the Knight Commander’s demand that Oscar be thrown in the dungeons and instead confine him to his quarters. (He was pushing for sending Oscar off to the Aeonar, and she knows if he goes there, even if he comes back, he will not be the laughing Oscar she has known) 

It’s a week of carefully timed casual encounters with the right mages, a practiced smile and a quiet reminder of all she knows and all she is owed (she may have only been a full mage for a little more than a year, but apprentices can pick up a lot of gossip and knowledge and favors as well, especially if they have been raised for court and use those tactics in the Circle, and she suppose it is a testament to her skills that the mages she approaches are actually surprised). Besides her discreet machinations and maneuvering (complemented by Marcel supplementing all of her knowledge of the Circle’s dirty secrets when he isn’t busy making sure every shred of evidence is burned and buried), she finds time to help Andi sneak food up to Oscar’s room through his window (she can’t manage to tuck in some of the salted caramels that he always manages to procure for her, but at the very least Andi manages to find some of his favorite herb-filled bread, and she manages to beg some of the Tranquil to make some of the oatcakes he likes so much. She hasn’t actually been able to see him since the whole fiasco began, and she worries) 

She’s passing by the entrance to the tower to try and convince Enchanter Marian to throw in her support that the Knight Commander has no grounds to hold Oscar (she has a Templar lover, and if she can convince her, well, things may actually turn out okay if they could get Templar support as well), when she notices the guard arguing with a dark haired woman accompanied by a red-blonde man. 

“No one is to see him, Knight Commander’s orders!” 

“Excuse me, but we have come a long way,” the dark haired woman says, standing her ground (she notes the darkwood staff on her back; a visiting mage?) as her companion sighs, “Surely you would not begrudge us at least entrance into this Circle?” 

The guard grimaces, “You wardens are trouble,” he says darkly. 

She stops in her tracks and takes a closer look. The man is wearing blue and grey armor with griffons emblazoned upon the chest piece, and underneath the grey cloak, the woman’s robes are also silver and blue. She has never seen a Grey Warden in her life, but everyone knows what Grey Warden armor looks like after the Fifth Blight (if only from the explosion of dolls with the uniform that were churned out). And if Grey Wardens are visiting, then the dark haired woman had to be Oscar’s sister (and normally she’d be excited—and she still is, but she’s already considering what it would mean to have the Arlessa of Amaranthine and Warden Commander of Ferelden on their side) and that meant she was arguing to see her brother and if she could get a Hero of Ferelden’s backing— 

She steps forward and calls out, “I can show you the way to the Knight Commander’s office, Warden-Commander Amell.” 

They turn towards her, the guard (Carl, she thinks, although it is hard to tell with the bucket-like helmet he has on) sputtering, while Iluuser Amell’s mouth draws up in a smile, and this is when she can tell that her and Oscar are definitely related because they have the same catlike smiles that promise amusement (although for who is hard to say). 

“Excellent,” Iluuser says, turning away from the guard and walking toward her, “Thank you, I’m sure we can clear this up quickly.” 

“You can’t just go see the Knight Commander!” Carl yells, stomping toward them, “You—” 

“And you are going to stop us?” Iluuser asks, crossing her arms and raising her eyebrow. She doesn’t reach for her staff, and her companion doesn’t reach for his sword, but the temperature does seem to get a little colder, and Carl stops. 

“…I suppose you can take them to see the Knight Commander, Trevelyan,” he mumbles. 

“Trevelyan?” Iluuser asks, turning to her, “As in, Rasleanne Trevelyan?” 

She nods, and Iluuser beams, clapping her hands together cheerfully, “I am very pleased to meet you! Oscar has told me so much about you!” 

Her companion also turns toward her and smiles and bows, “I’m always glad to meet someone who knows which way to go,” he quips. 

“And it is an honor to meet both of you as well—but we should go,” she says, glancing at Carl who is glowering at them. 

“Oh, I’m sure none of us want any trouble,” Iluuser says, smiling at Carl who shrinks at her look (maybe he’s noticed how the runes on the staff on Iluuser’s back have begun to lightly glow), “Lead the way?” 

So she leads one of the Heroes of Ferelden and her companion down the hall and up toward the Knight Commander’s office. Even though the situation is serious, since even if tranquility is off the table, execution or life-time imprisonment is not—she cannot help but sneak glances back at them. She has to admit that given the tales, she expected someone who gleamed with more power. She has met more than a few First Enchanters (although in the future, she has to say that Vivienne is by far the flashiest she has ever seen), and all of them had worn their power in their clothing, with rich fabrics, intricate embroidery, and gems. Iluuser Amell was the First Enchanter’s apprentice before she became a warden, but besides the staff still glowing ominously, Oscar’s sister had a very understated look. Her dark hair was short but arranged in a series of deceptively intricate braids, her cloak looked worn but glinted with charms woven into the fabric, her robes were the same Grey Warden robes that she has seen before but seemed quite clean, her black boots look sturdy if dusty from the road, and she has no doubt that the scarred darkwood staff on her back that hasn’t ceased glowing has seen more than a little action. She is not the peerless beauty that the bards had proclaimed, but she is pretty in the same lively way Oscar is handsome. Her companion stays close to her side, his hair looks like it hasn’t seen a comb in a few days, his face is kind of scruffy, but his armor is well-polished, and his shield proudly bears the emblem of the Grey Wardens even if it looks a bit dented. He seems pretty happy for a guy who is unwelcome in a tower of mages though, and he grins at her reassuringly when she glances back at the two of them for the fifth time 

“How is Oscar?” Iluuser asks, as they climb the stairs. 

“He’s alright; confined to his rooms, but—well, we’re worried because the Knight Commander keeps wanting to throw him in the dungeons—or the Aeonar,” she replied, rubbing her hands together. 

Iluuser let out a hiss, “But there’s no hard evidence against him?” 

“No, Marcel’s been busy—but wait,” she turned towards them, “You already know about…?” 

“Everything,” Iluuser said with a sigh and a handwave, “Or at least, the most pertinent details. Oscar wrote about his scheme; he also sent a letter with my rook to tell me of his capture. We set out immediately.” 

(And by everything, does she just mean Oscar’s idiot plan or does she also mean what motivated Oscar to do this stupid thing? Because even though it’s been almost a year, she still cannot think about Damian without the churn of panic rising from her stomach—and if Iluuser Amell knew about this, how could she see her with any respect at all? But they have more pressing concerns than whether or not the mage Hero of Ferelden knows of her stupid mistake, and if she manages to get Oscar out of this mess, then she will have time enough to worry about that) 

The door to the Knight Commander’s office looms before them, and she hesitates in front of it, before Iluuser steps forward and simply swings the door open. 

The Knight Commander looks up with brow furrowed as they walk in, and the First Enchanter looks both semi-scandalized and shocked, and Iluuser places her hand on her shoulder and bows slightly. 

“Greetings, Knight Commander Tristan, First Enchanter Melaine. I am Warden-Commander Amell of Ferelden.” 

“You have no jurisdiction here,” the Knight Commander growls, standing up. 

“But I could,” Iluuser replies lightly, “Grey Wardens are allowed to recruit whomever they see fit, regardless of geographic location. But I’m not here looking for recruits, Knight-Commander. I am here to see my brother.” 

“That isn’t possible,” the Knight Commander snapped, “Your brother is under suspicion of very serious and damning crimes—” 

“You have no evidence,” Iluuser cut in, tapping her fingers against his desk, “And even if you did, smuggling is hardly the provenance of a maleficar.” 

“How do you know about how much evidence we have—” 

“It is true though, as I have said before, Knight Commander,” the First Enchanter said, looking pointedly at the Knight Commander, “However Warden-Commander Amell here got her information, you have no hard evidence linking Oscar to the lyrium shipments.” 

“And as _I_ have said before, the fact that he was up there stealing the letter is very suspicious. And ever since he has been confined, the lyrium shipments have resumed,” the Knight Commander argued. 

“The lyrium shipment only arrived yesterday,” the First Enchanter stated, “and we all know that there are numerous reasons that Oscar could have been up in the rookery stealing letters.” 

“If you wish to punish Oscar for his pranks and tricks, go ahead,” Iluuser said with a smile, “But if you decide to imprison him, or Maker forbid, send him to the Aeonar, I will be very displeased.” 

The Knight Commander sneered, “And what can a dog lord’s whore do?” 

Iluuser’s companion’s face darkened and his hand automatically flew to his sword, “ _You—”_

Iluuser held up a hand to still her companion, and she was still smiling, but the room had suddenly dropped several degrees, and she could see her breath spiraling up into the rafters of the office, “Let’s not get ugly here, Knight Commander. But now that you bring it up, you would be _surprised_ by how much I can do here. For starters, I could conscript your entire garrison of Templars into the Wardens right now, if I wanted to. That would be hard for you to explain to the Order, wouldn’t it?” 

“You wouldn’t dare; I can call Templars here right now to imprison you—” 

“Do not test me, Knight Commander,” Iluuser said, and she could see frost growing up her neck and hands, and ice had begun to form on the floor, “You will fail. I have faced a tower full of abominations, the Deep Roads, and the Archdemon itself. Do you think I fear a few Templars?” 

The Knight Commander drew his sword, and Iluuser’s companion drew his too and pointed it straight at his throat. 

“You think you can face me, boy?” the Knight Commander asked. 

Her companion snorted, “I’ve faced worse than you, and I’m still alive.” 

The Knight Commander looked as though there was nothing more he wanted to do but ram his sword through her, but she could tell that even he was wary of facing the Warden Commander of Ferelden who hadn’t even put a hand on her staff and was causing the entire office to ice. Not to mention her companion who still hadn’t taken his hand off of his sword and looked like he was just itching for an excuse to draw on the Knight Commander. 

“…perhaps we can come to a compromise,” the First Enchanter said slowly, clearing her throat, “While it is true that we have no real evidence to convict Oscar, it can hardly be denied that Oscar is most likely somehow involved. Therefore, Oscar will be assigned to manual labor for three months. I will personally see to it that he actually shovels manure, but that no actual physical harm comes to him.” 

“This is acceptable,” Iluuser said as the ice began to slowly recede from the walls. 

“Tristan?” the First Enchanter prompted. 

The Knight Commander grimaced but dipped his head in assent, “But it will not go well for him if he gets into any more trouble,” he warned with a malevolent look to Iluuser. 

Iluuser simply smiled and swept her arms out and dipped into a small curtsy, “Thank you for your time, Knight Commander, First Enchanter. I am so pleased that we could come to an agreement.” 

She turned and motioned with her head, “Now, shall we?” and they swept out the door while Rasleanne was still trying not to laugh hysterically at the Knight Commander’s and First Enchanter’s expressions (after she met Hawke, she started to believe that knowing when to be an annoying little shit was a talent passed down in the Amell bloodline because all of them seemed to know how to turn the smallest gesture or word into an orchestra of mockery) 

As they hurried away, she was the one to break the silence first, “I can’t believe—would you really have conscripted every Templar in the Circle?” 

Both Iluuser and her companion laughed. “No,” she admitted, “We can always use more people, but I prefer my wardens volunteering.” 

“Or having just tried to kill you and then volunteering,” her companion interjected with a roll of his eyes. 

She sighed, “I don’t know why you and Nathaniel belabor this point,” she complained, “It was just Zev; it’s not like I make a habit of looking for people who want to kill me and then recruit them.” 

Her companion raised his eyebrows as he began to tick names off of his fingers, “Besides Zevran, there’s Nathaniel himself, Velanna, a pirate captain, a whole band of qunari mercenaries, that Orlesian clown assassin last month—” 

“ _Anyway_ ,” Iluuser said loudly, bumping her companion with her hip, “no, I wouldn’t have actually taken anyone who didn’t actually want to join. But no one ever wants to test me on this point, so it usually works as an effective threat.” 

“I…see. Thank you,” she said earnestly (whatever the tactics, or what a grand bluff her scheme was relying on, the important thing is that Oscar is _safe)_. 

“It’s the least I can do,” Iluuser replied, “but really, I should be thanking you. I’m sure it was not easy to keep the Knight Commander busy with the demands of the other enchanters.” 

“Oh—that was nothing,” she says quickly, “Marcel helped a lot, and without Andi, Oscar would have starved—and getting rid of the evidence was all them, and—” 

“Oscar told me that you were trying to use your connections in the Circle to help him,” Iluuser said, looking at her seriously, “Without those, I doubt many would have held the Knight Commander back. Don’t make light of your talents, Rasleanne.” 

“I—thank you,” she said, looking down and feeling her cheeks warm but also having a squiggly happy feeling in her stomach. 

They get to Oscar’s chambers, and when they open the door, Oscar looks up with a grin and says, “Took you long enough.” 

She hugs him while telling him how dumb he is (which he is, he so is, but she prefers him like this rather than broken as the Knight Commander wants), and then he looks at his sister who is still smiling, but there is a hint of uncertainty in her eyes. 

“Hello, brother,” she says, her voice wavering on the last word. 

Oscar’s grin grows wider as he walks over and pulls her into a tight embrace, “Hello, sister,” he says, his voice just a bit rough. 

He looks at her companion, and he laughs with delight, “And you brought a king to see me as well? I’m humbled, your majesty,” he says, with a quick flourish of a bow. 

She gapes as the blonde Warden (king?) rubs the back of his head and sighed, “I was so hopeful that no one would recognize me this trip.” 

Iluuser laughs, “Well, so far Oscar is the only one who has managed to recognize you thus far.” 

“You said he was insisting on coming along,” Oscar pointed out, “And I have heard that Ferelden’s king is blonde. I can put two and two together—” 

She quickly kicked Oscar, making him stumble into something that at least approached a respectful bow (the _king_ , true of Ferelden, land of uncouth dog lords, but _still_ ), and she quickly bent into a deep curtsy herself, “Your majesty,” she said, “My apologies, I didn’t—I did not realize—” 

“Really, please stop,” King Alistair said, while pulling both her and Oscar back up, “Just call me Alistair; I’m traveling incognito after all.” 

“Alistair it is then,” Oscar said, elbowing her, “So tell me Alistair, what do your advisors think about you running off on this little trip?” 

“I could have argued with them that as king, I should be well-traveled, but thankfully, Bann Teagan is just pretending that I am ill and cannot see anyone in Kirkwall,” Alistair replied with a grin. 

“Although, if Arl Eamon knew you were taking another one of these trips with me, he’d probably blow up. Again,” Iluuser said wryly. 

Alistair chuckled, “Next time I’m sending him to you. He’s too busy trying not to freeze when he talks to you to ever bother yelling at you.” 

As the two of them continued to debate how to handle Arl Eamon, she tugged on Oscar’s sleeve and hissed to him, “This is finally the chance for us to settle that bet!” 

“What bet—oh, _oh._ Oh come on, really?” 

“You’re just mad that I’m going to win,” she stated firmly, crossing her arms. 

Oscar rolled his eyes and then called out, “So, sister, settle the argument between me and Lea finally? You with Alistair over there or not?” 

Iluuser and Alistair exchanged a look and then both grinned. 

“I’m not sure Alistair, what do you say?” she asked teasingly as his arm snaked around her waist and drew her closer to him, “Are we together or not?” 

“Well, I think all of Hightown in Kirkwall is still gossiping about how often I visited your cousin’s estate,” he commented, as she drew a hand down his cheek. 

“Hmm, well I’m glad that Hawke was willing to play along,” she said as he touched his forehead to hers. 

“Next time we use a decoy, can we make sure she doesn’t have a number of potentially homicidal suitors? I really thought Fenris was going to kill us, and I’m surprised your friend Anders didn’t go all glowy-eyed Vengeance on me,” he murmured with a grin, hand carding through her hair. 

She turned to Oscar, “Pay up,” she demanded. 

Oscar sighed as he dug into his pocket, “Fine, fine, you win. They’re together, although why it’s so hard to get a straight answer out of them…anyway, stop macking on my sister, Alistair. We’re going to have a _talk.”_

He tugged Alistair away from Iluuser, and Iluuser gave them a wave before turning to her. 

“So, Oscar tells me you have a lovely garden. Would you mind showing me?” 

And so she leads the mage Hero of Ferelden down to the gardens, anxiously showing her the nice little plot of medicinal herbs she has set up, the sweet hanging boughs of Prophet’s laurel, the patch of crystal grace tinkling in the wind, and the giant flesh-eating flytrap. Iluuser smiled and was clapped with excitement, eyes sparkling with wonder when she saw the flytrap. 

“Maker, this is amazing!” she said, eagerly walking forward to the swaying plant, “And you said you bred this yourself?” 

“Yes,” she said, carefully petting Cleo so it wouldn’t try to snap at Iluuser (it tended to do that around new people), “I had a lot of time after my Harrowing and—well, this was a good way to work through things.” 

“I had a friend once who would have loved this,” Iluuser said wistfully, staring up at the fly trap, “She would have probably asked you for a cutting. I’m even tempted to.” 

“I could definitely get you one,” she said eagerly, looking around for her shears, “Although you must be careful to keep it in a warm environment, I have heard that Ferelden is quite cold and wet—” 

“And smells of wet dog,” Iluuser said cheerfully, leaning back as the flytrap tried to swoop in, “No, I’ve killed every single plant anyone has ever given me, and Nathaniel will yell at me if I try to make some of the recruits take care of it. Which reminds me, here,” she took a small sachet out of her bag and handed it to her. 

She opened the bag curiously and looked inside, “Seeds?” 

“Seeds for Andraste’s Grace,” Iluuser replied, “One of my friends really loves them. I know they’re not common outside of Ferelden, and Oscar said you liked trying new breeds. Do you like it?” 

“I love it,” she said immediately, already picturing the muddy soil she would have to find for a wildflower native to Ferelden and which shady part of the garden would be suitable for it, “Thank you.” 

Iluuser relaxed and looked up at Cleo, “Amazing what you managed,” she commented, attempting to reach a hand toward the fly-trap, “Oscar really should have just let you feed that bastard to it instead of all his convoluted scheming.” 

She cringes, “You know about him?” (She had really hoped otherwise) 

Iluuser sighed, drawing her hand back quickly as Cleo snapped at it, “Only what Oscar said. That a Templar had hurt you, and he was going to make sure he wouldn’t try something like that again.” 

She looks at the mage warden and frowns, “…did Oscar really want to talk to the king, or did he just want _you_ to talk to me?” 

Iluuser chuckled, drawing a hand over her mouth, “I think he really does want to have a talk with Alistair about our relationship. Although quite honestly, I don’t know why. A bit late isn’t it? But, yes, he did ask if I could talk to you.” 

She paused and looked at her seriously, “He didn’t…coerce you? Use force?” 

Rasleanne shook her head quickly, “No; it was—I thought—he was nice. To me. And I thought—he told me he loved me, and I believed him,” her lip curls into a bitter smile, “I let him—after my Harrowing, I let him be my first. But it all for a bet: who could fuck a noble first. It was stupid, you would have never—” 

Iluuser laughs, and she turns to look at the older woman in surprise. “I was also a mage of a Circle," she says with a wry smile that looks so much like Oscar's, "There was...a templar that I liked as well.” 

"That's different, he isn't a Templar anymore; was he ever actually inducted into the order?" she asks bitterly (and seeing the way the king looked at her when she was in his embrace, she did not doubt that he would make her his queen in a heartbeat if he could) 

Iluuser raised her eyebrow, "No, you're correct, Alistair was never formally a templar, but I'm not talking about Alistair." 

She gave Iluuser an incredulous look (now that she thinks about it, it was silly to think that the mage Hero of Ferelden didn’t have relationships while in the Circle, but the bards had always made it sound like she had never known love before becoming a warden, so she had not really thought about it). 

"It never went anywhere," Iluuser said with a wave of her hand, "We were friends who sometimes chatted about books. I was still an apprentice, I wasn't about to risk becoming Tranquil, and even if I had, he was far too good of a man to have taken advantage of our situation. And I was recruited to the Grey Wardens right after my Harrowing, so...” 

"What happened?" She remembered what happened to Ferelden's Circle, "Is he still alive?" 

Iluuser’s mouth turned down, "Yes, but he was not ...well when we got there. He's at Kirkwall now; he was made Knight-Captain.” 

"Kirkwall? That's..." she struggled for the words. A man that could be made Knight-Captain there—she would not want to meet him. "I guess my choice wasn't as terrible as I thought." 

Iluuser snorts, “Hawke forgot to mention him, so I was about as surprised as he was when he came to greet our delegation in the Knight Commander’s place. Although you would have thought he had seen a ghost, that was how white he turned… But...He went through a lot; it makes sense that he would want to leave," Iluuser's eyes are distant, “Despite everything that has happened, I still believe he is a good man.” 

“The Knight Captain of the Templars in _Kirkwall’s Gallows_?” she asked dubiously. 

Iluuser ran a tried hand across her face, “Kirkwall’s Circle was…I have never seen anything like it. The Templars are quick to punish, and the mages have few liberties. And yet, there is also a disturbing number of blood mages that were apprehended just in the time I was there; and these were not trumped up charges. Whatever the case, some of the Circle mages wanted to become wardens, and I was willing to take them in. I tried talking to him about it. We argued, and... things that probably shouldn't have been said were said.” 

“And yet you still believe him a good man?" (Every time she remembered the words Damian had used to describe her to his fellow Templars, she wanted to crawl into a dark hole and never leave) 

Iluuser smiled, “Whatever he said, the Knight Commander let me take the mages the next day. And he did somehow manage to convince the Knight Commander to allow the mages to practice in the yard. He even let Hawke and I put on a demonstration. He…is still angry, but maybe with time, he will remember that we are not all bad. And restrain the Knight-Commander’s excesses. I wish him the best.” 

"I guess," she says doubtfully (if a person has seen the worst of something, can they ever really trust it again?), rubbing her arm. 

“And the point of that whole meandering story is just to say that we all make mistakes,” Iluuser said, putting a hand on her shoulder, “But it will not always be like this; ruin and ashes and sorrow in your mouth. True, it will happen more often than you like, but I promise you, one day you will walk head high, singing with joy, and the one you love and who adores you back will be waiting for you. And until that day, walk knowing that all things strive, so you should as well." 

"Is that what you tell your wardens?" she asks sarcastically, looking up at her. 

"Always," Iluuser says seriously, a glint of humor in her eye, "Mostly to Carver. Or Nathaniel when Velanna has decided to dump him again." 

(And although the memory still hurts, and although she still thinks that Iluuser Amell would never have been so stupid as to believe Damian, it is nice to think that one day what happened will not make her burn with shame as much.) 

She giggled and then began walking back to the tower, “…thank you. We should probably get back though, before Oscar manages to drag your king into one of his pranks.” 

Iluuser stretched luxuriously, “Ah, dear. Even Bann Teagan will be angry at us if he gets caught doing that. Please, proceed.” 

As they walked back, she cleared her throat, “If it’s okay—I did have a question I wanted to ask you.” 

Iluuser smiled reassuringly, “Go ahead.” 

“You are Warden-Commander and Arlessa of Amaranthine and—close to the king of Ferelden. It’s—a lot of power for one person. One mage. Do you not worry?” she asks. 

(She loves stories about the mage Hero of Ferelden, most mages do, but even if she does not attend as many services as she should, she is still a fairly devout Andrastian. And there is no denying that Iluuser Amell has accumulated more power than a mage would normally would be allowed, and even if she thinks that it is probably deserved for slaying an Archdemon, wouldn’t it worry her? There are few Circle mages who are not Andrastian after all, and she wonders how she reconciles her belief with her position. She has enough trouble reconciling her own ambition with her belief after all, and it would be nice to know someone else’s thoughts on it) 

“Because magic was made to serve man, not rule over them?” Iluuser asked, placing a hand over her mouth in thought, “I will admit that when mages go bad, the results are…nightmarish, and if they’re in a position of power, the results can be even more far-reaching. However, does that mean we all should be banned from positions where we can do good? I wasn’t actually that happy when Alistair attached the title of Amaranthine to that of Warden-Commander, running a city is a lot of work, but I try my best. It is my duty to the people placed into my care, and in case I ever go mad, there are caches of magebane all over Vigil’s Keep.” 

Iluuser smiled at her surprised look, “If you think I do not fear what I could do if I lost myself, you are wrong,” she said softly, “It is my worst nightmare. And often I wonder…it would be far better for me to break things off with Alistair so that he can find a noble girl to marry and crown and give him an heir. Having a mage for a mistress does him no favors, but—I can’t let him go. It’s selfish of me, but I will stay by his side as long he wants me.” 

Iluuser shook her head and clapped her hand on her shoulder, “Enough of this gloomy talk. Introduce me to Marcel and Andi; I have heard so much about them.” 

“Especially Andi probably,” she commented. 

“Indeed,” Iluuser said with a laugh, “Did she really put gigantic cockroaches in Oscar’s room once?” 

And the rest of the visit proceeds in a flurry of good-natured teasing, increasingly unlikely tales (there is no real way Iluuser faced off against the ghost of a dragon in the Blackmarsh), and laughter, interrupted only by Oscar being hauled off again to shovel manure or clean the bathrooms or whatever other tasks the First Enchanter has assigned him in penance. Iluuser and the king stay for a little over a week, keeping residence in an inn nearby in the city in order to avoid further conflict with the Knight Commander. Andi is never one for thanks, but she does try to make sure that fancy Orlesian cakes and cheeses find their way to the two wardens, and Iluuser seems to be delighted by Andi’s acerbic tongue and tells Oscar seriously to hang on to her. The king is especially enthusiastic about the cheeses and somehow convinces Andi to give him a tour of the cheese storehouse in the kitchens. Marcel and Iluuser exchange book recommendations and have long rambling conversations about the best translations of certain works. Oscar and the king get along surprisingly well, snarking at each other, while recounting adventures (apparently Oscar had waylaid a couple of the lyrium shipments by acting like a highwayman, and the king has stories that are just as ridiculous as Iluuser’s. Far be it from her to call him a liar, but a talking, rhyming, tree in the Brecilian Forests seems highly unlikely). Oscar and Iluuser piece together their family history, Oscar telling Iluuser about their mother and youngest sister, and Iluuser telling him about their Hawke cousins (apparently Saabel Hawke really had faced off against the Arishok in a one-on-one duel and won). Iluuser comes to visit her garden often, citing that she likes the peacefulness of it all, and they talk about everything from the Fifth Blight to her own life in Ostwick. 

When it is time for the two of them to leave for Markham to visit the youngest Amell sibling, Oscar piles them down with various books recommended by Marcel as gifts for Clarice, Andi gives them a basket of various breads, and she gives them both a hug and a hope that the Maker would watch over them both. 

“And you as well,” Iluuser said with a smile, “We will come visit again, I promise.” 

And she does, but it is not until years later after the Mage Rebellion has started and Ostwick’s steps are stained in blood. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cleo is named after Morticia Addams' plant Cleopatra


	7. Amell: Ostagar

Ostagar is blood and panic and screams, with darkspawn swarming everywhere. It’s all she can do to keep swinging her staff, keep putting up ice walls and summoning lightning strikes while Amdir races here and there, daggers flashing, and Alistair bashes the darkspawn closest to her with his shield and stabs it with his sword. She’s drinking lyrium potions with a grimace as they race up the tower, and it’s the first time she sees an ogre (and she will always be at least somewhat sympathetic to her warden recruits when they pale when they see an ogre for the first time because she had seriously thought about fainting or running back down the stairs when she had seen that horned behemoth coming after them). They manage to defeat it through a combination of her throwing lightning and ice walls, Amdir leaping and slashing, and Alistair determinedly charging in and stabbing it with his sword. Covered in blood (she thinks there is some even in her hair), they manage to light the beacon, but there is no time to see if Teyrn Loghain’s forces have managed to stem the onslaught because they still have darkspawn streaming up the tower to face. 

There seems to be no end to them, and right before the tower shakes (did something hit it?) and she sees two more ogres step up the stairs, she sends a small prayer to the Maker ( _Draw your last breath, my friends/Cross the Veil and the Fade and all the stars in the sky./Rest at the Maker's right hand,/And be Forgiven.),_ and she wishes that she could have said goodbye to everyone at the Tower (even Jowan). Then the darkspawn surge toward them, and even though she spins her staff in deadly arcs and make the whole place ice, there are too many, and she feels something manage to stab her through her armor of ice, and then something hits her, and she falls into darkness. 

Her dreams are strange, filled with whispers and the Archdemon and dragons, and when she opens her eyes, her vision is bleary, but it looks like the inside of a hut. And a dark haired woman, the apostate Morrigan. She is starting to doubt that she had returned to the Maker’s side. 

Morrigan notices that she is awake and seems happy, “You’re awake then. Mother will be pleased, and so will your companions.” 

“What? Wait, what happened?” she asks, glancing around and then wincing. Her entire body feels sore and grimy, like after a particularly bad training session. 

“You were injured, and then Mother rescued you,” Morrigan replies easily. 

She moves the blanket off of herself and grimaces. There is a faded, jagged scar running up her belly, and from the odd stretching on the back of her neck, it seems as though the darkspawn had managed to get past her armor. Still, she is just sore, not in pain, and the scars are not even red; either she has been lying in this bed much longer than she thinks, or Morrigan’s mother is a much better healer than she expected (then again, it’s not like there are many healers to be found in the Kocarri Wilds. She probably had to get good by necessity). She runs a hand through her hair and wrinkles her nose at how greasy it feels. No point in trying to braid it; she’ll just try to make it look semi-presentable and find a bathhouse as soon as possible. 

“What happened to the army? The battle?” she asks, swinging her legs onto the ground (she wonders if they are looking for them) 

“The man who was supposed to respond to your signal quit the field,” Morrigan replies, opening a chest that she could see contained her robes, miraculously cleaned of blood, “The darkspawn won your battle. Those he abandoned were massacred.” 

She stares at Morrigan as the woman pushes her robes into her unresisting hands. That can’t be right. True, there had been a lot of darkspawn, but the teyrn couldn’t have just _abandoned_ the king and the entire army, could he? Everyone knew the stories of the Hero of River Dane; Loghain Mac Tir had been one of King Maric’s most loyal companions even when the king had simply been a rebel prince wandering in the wilderness, attempting to evade the Orlesians. Not only that, his daughter was Queen Anora. He couldn’t have abandoned his best friend’s only son and the husband of his daughter, could he? She’s still recovering from her wounds; she must have misunderstood. 

“What happened to the Grey Wardens? And the king?” she asks again (surely someone lives that can explain what has happened. Surely she cannot be the only survivor. Surely…where are Amdir and Alistair? They were right by her; surely if she is alive, they cannot be dead?). 

“All dead. Your blonde friend has not been taking it well; he has veered between denial and grief since mother told him,” Morrigan replies, pursing her lips in what seemed to be annoyance, “Your elf friend has been dealing with him.” 

“Amdir and Alistair?” she asks, pulling the robe over her head as she felt a profound sense of relief wash over her. Thank the Maker, she’s not alone. She feels some of the stabbing sensations of panic ebb away, “Are they okay?” 

“They are…as you are,” Morrigan replies, handing her her staff, “Your elf friend woke up before you did. I suppose it would be unkind to say your other friend is being childish.” 

“A bit,” she replies softly, standing and closing her eyes against the sudden rush of vertigo. From what she had gathered in the little conversation she had had with Alistair, it seemed as though the Grey Wardens were the closest thing he had to a family. She didn’t know if that meant he was an orphan or was simply estranged from his family (more than one noble family had forced their younger sons into the Templar order), but either ways, for them to be all gone… To fall apart would be natural; she was fairly sure she would as well, if something to happened to everyone back at the Circle. 

Morrigan sniffs, “Would his friends appreciate his crying and wailing? If so, they are not the Grey Wardens of old.” 

She shrugged, swinging her staff around a bit. There is an odd stiffness in her shoulder, but other than that, she passes her staff from hand to hand smoothly and she can feel the thrum of her magic coursing through it. It seems as though everything is in working order. “Where are they?” 

“Outside; Mother wants to see you as well,” Morrigan replies, crossing her arms. 

She nods and automatically reaches for her pack (days on the road had given her that much of a habit) before realizing that it is not here. She had only taken the essentials with her into battle; her staff, ring, and robes are now all the connections she has left to the Circle; Elaine’s potions and poultices have long since been used up, and she assumes the book Cullen had gifted her is burned or scattered across the battlefield. She lets out a long breath and closes her eyes and reminds herself that at least she is alive (after all, she had already been resigning her soul to the Maker), and so are Amdir and Alistair, and books can be replaced (even if it won’t have the Circle’s stamp inside its cover, and the pages won’t be worn from her once again rereading it, and Cullen has never specifically hidden it so that he could give it to her). 

“Thank you for helping us, Morrigan,” she says, as she walks toward the door. 

Morrigan actually looks stunned, “I—you are welcome, though Mother did most of the work. I am no healer.” 

She smiles, thinking of Anders’ hands bathed in calming blue light and Alissa’s medical books and notes and Elaine’s apocthecary, “Neither am I, really.” 

She walks out of the hut, and both Alistair and Amdir start at her arrival. Amdir looks somewhat tired, dark circles under his eyes, but Alistair looks haggard, his face gaunt, eyes red, and days old stubble growing on his chin. 

Amdir lets out a sigh of relief and turns to Alistair, “See? I told you she was tougher than she looked.” 

“You’re alive,” Alistair said, his voice hoarse, “I thought you were dead for sure.” 

“Were you worried?” she asks lightly, walking forward, ignoring the stretch of the scar tissue around her stomach. 

“You—there was so much blood, and you were still so pale, even when Amdir had woken up—” Alistair said, keeping his eyes on her, “I’m sorry I let the darkspawn get so close.” 

She shook her head quickly (he can’t blame himself for that, can he?), “There were far too many for anyone to have prevented that. No one is at fault here.” 

She turns to look at Amdir, “And you are both alright?” 

Amdir shrugged, “More or less. You were the worst off since you don’t wear armor, but we probably all have a few new scars.” 

Alistair sighed and looked gloomily at the swamp, “This doesn’t seem real. If it weren’t for Morrigan’s mother, we’d all be dead.” 

“Do not talk about me as if I’m not present, lad,” Morrigan’s mother calls out, walking over from the edge of the swamp. 

“I didn’t mean—but what do we call you?” Alistair asks, “You never told us your name.” 

“Names are pretty, but useless,” Morrigan’s mother says flippantly, “The Chasind call me Flemeth; I suppose it will do.” 

“ _The_ Flemeth from the legends?” Alistair asks incredulously, and she is looking at the woman with about as much shock that Alistair is showing. 

She has read about Flemeth, the original Witch of the Wilds; she doubted that there was anyone in Ferelden or Orlais who didn’t know the legend. But she had assumed that was all it was, a legend, and the woman standing in front of her didn’t look like an ancient abomination made of Vengeance (of course, that was supposed to be the tricky thing about abominations, wasn’t it?). It was more likely that some of the witches of the Kocarri Wilds took on her name in tribute, but…she couldn’t place it, but she just seemed off. Morrigan had mentioned that her mother’s magic was keeping the darkspawn away from this place, but it was so quiet. And how _had_ she saved them from the Tower of Ishal? How powerful was this woman? 

She asks Flemeth why she had bothered to risk her life to save them, and Flemeth states that she couldn’t let all the grey wardens die out; after all, it was their duty to unite the land against the Blight. 

Amdir snorts, “The land is hardly united, no thanks to Loghain.” 

“That doesn’t make sense; why would he do it?” Alistair asks angrily (and this is a question that none of them really have the answer for, even years later). 

“Now _that_ is a good question. Men’s hearts hold shadows darker than any creature,” Flemeth replies as her face darkens (and she sympathisizes. First Jowan, now this massacre at Ostagar. It seems betrayal is haunting her steps) 

“There are other wardens, aren’t there?” she asks, turning to Alistair, “In Orlais?” 

Alistair sighed, “There are, but I don’t know how to contact them.” 

“Plus Loghain probably throw them all back if they arrived,” Amdir pointed out, “Everyone knows how much he hates Orlesians.” 

“If Arl Eamon knew what he did at Ostagar, he’d be the first to call for his execution!” Alistair said fiercely, “He wasn’t there, so he still has all of his forces…and he’s Cailan’s uncle. I know him, he’s a good man, respected in the Landsmeet.” 

He looks at her, suddenly more energized, “We could go to Redcliffe and appeal to him for help!” 

“Would a noble really help us against the teyrn?” Amdir asked, crossing his arms skeptically, “I really don’t feel like walking all over the Hinterlands again just to get handed over to Loghain’s men as soon as we get to Redcliffe and announce ourselves.” 

“No, the arl would never do that,” Alistair said sharply, “I know him too well.” 

A Redcliffe boy then? She had always wanted to visit the village, but the Templars never let them go much further than the shores of Lake Calenhad on their rare excursions out of the Tower. From what little she had heard (gossip around the Tower was mostly Circle business and shenanigans, but they did get most of their supplies from Redcliffe), Arl Eamon was well liked in the Bannorn, even if he had married an Orlesian woman. She recalled that they had a son; she had never heard of the arl raising a ward, but then again, by the time she would have been paying attention to outside news, Alistair had likely already been sent to the Chantry. 

“We could try that,” she offers, “But could he raise the rest of the Bannorn to help?” 

Alistair passed a hand across his mouth, “That would mean civil war…but we also have the treaties, don’t we?” 

In the battle and chaos, she had completely forgotten about the treaties. Mages, elves and dwarves, there was an army. And holding the Circle to the treaty would mean going back to Kinloch Hold. She wasn’t sure if she was more relieved that she would be able to see everyone again or dreading their reaction to a known maleficar by association returning. 

Amdir nodded, “Sounds good, less likely to get us thrown in a dungeon anyway. And at the very least, Iluuser knows everyone at the Circle.” 

“You’re forgetting the less than auspicious circumstances that surrounded my departure,” she replied dryly, “But yes, I could try to talk to the First Enchanter.” 

“So can we do this? Go to Redcliffe and the Circle and everywhere else and build an army?” Alistair asked looking at both of them. 

She smiled, trying to project confidence that she didn’t really feel (setting aside Dalish elves and Orzamaar, First Enchanter Irving had never been that enthusiastic about sending mages to battle. And she was sure the Knight Commander was going to try to smite her as soon as she waltzed through the doors of Kinloch Hold), “Well, we are Grey Wardens, aren’t we?” 

“It’s not like we have any better options to stop the Blight,” replied Amdir with a shrug. 

Flemeth chuckled, “Well said. Now, before you go, there is one more thing I can offer you.” 

Morrigan walked over to ask if they were going, and Flemeth replied that she would be joining their little group. Morrigan seemed about as surprised as the rest of them, and Alistair automatically began to protest. 

“Won’t this add to our problems? Outside of the Wilds, she’s an apostate,” he pointed out, with his arms crossed. 

“If you do not wish help from us illegal mages, young man, perhaps I should have left all of you on that tower,” Flemeth replied sharply, “Consider this repayment for your lives.” 

“I could just as easily be mistaken for an apostate,” she cut in lightly (it would be nice to have another female mage around, even one as prickly as Morrigan), “We can always just say that she is a warden as well.” 

“Mother, this not how I wanted this—I am not even ready—” 

“You must be ready,” Flemeth interrupted, “They need you, Morrigan. Without you, they will surely fail, and all will perish under the Blight. As will I.” 

Morrigan looked down, “I…understand.” 

Flemeth turned toward them, “And all of you, do you understand? I give you that which I value above all in the world because you _must_ suceeed.” 

Alistair sighed and nodded, while Amdir gave the two witches of the wild a long look before shrugging, “We do need all the help we can get, don’t we?” 

She smiled at Morrigan, “Thank you for joining us, Morrigan.” 

Morrigan rolled her eyes and went to get her things. 

They left Flemeth’s hut with cursory farewells (even Morrigan. Maybe she was still shocked about leaving?), and Morrigan asks sarcastically if they want her advice or for her to just be a silent guide. She cuts in before Alistair can say anything (she has a feeling that fielding the two of them was going to be like making sure Anders and Alissa didn’t end up flinging spells at one another in the middle of the infirmary) and says that they would much prefer her to speak her mind. Morrigan looks surprised, but she coughs and begins to lead them through the Wilds, headed toward the town of Lothering that Morrigan said was at the edge of the Wilds and currently not overrun by darkspawn. It wasn’t exactly the most comfortable walk; Morrigan led the way, surefooted and easily pointing out places not to step unless they wanted to end up in the bog, but mostly quiet despite her earlier question. Alistair followed grudgingly, she stepped carefully while occasionally trying to swat away the bugs that kept flying into her face, and Amdir brought up the rear with nearly silent footsteps. They are quiet besides Morrigan’s short comments to keep close and not wander off, and she is nearly resigned that they will walk in awkward silence all the way to the town before Alistair decides to break the silence. 

“So, what exactly _were_ these circumstances in which you left the Circle?” he asks, turning to her. 

She lets out a soft laugh (nervous habit; even if he had left the order, he might not like hearing that one of his companions happened to be an accessory in aiding a maleficar, but she might as well tell him now instead of him hearing about it whenever they arrive at the Circle), and says, “Well…I had a friend. He was afraid that he was going to be turned Tranquil because there were rumors that he was a bloodmage, so he wanted my help breaking his phylactery. I’d known him since I was four, and I thought the rumors were ridiculous, so I helped him. We got caught, and it turns out, he was a blood mage after all.” 

Alistair’s eyes are wide, “Maker’s breath, that’s horrible—what happened to him?” 

“He managed to run away; left me to deal with his mess, like always,” she said, trying for a light tone, but she felt that a bit of her bitterness had seeped into her words. 

“And you call this person your friend?” Morrigan asks disbelievingly, “It seems as though there was little reward for your loyalty; why did you bother?” 

“You risk things like that happening when you make friends,” she replies softly, “Especially in the Circle.” 

Morrigan shakes her head, “I do not understand why all of you let yourself be imprisoned and cowed in a tower,” she complains. 

“I was four when I was taken to the Circle,” she points out, “Not exactly much I could do then. And later, there are generally more Templars than adult mages in Kinloch Hold at any given time.” 

Morrigan snorts, “ _That_ is an excuse,” she argues, “I would rather have died than have stayed in a gilded cage like you.” 

“Well, I’m out now,” she replied easily (there are good points and bad points to the Circle, and she would be willing to discuss it with Morrigan, but not in the middle of a bog that could potentially be overrun with darkspawn soon), “So that’s good at least.” 

“No regrets?” Alistair asks her, kicking a pebble away from them. 

She laughs (because the last thing she wants to do right now is wonder if there was anything she could have done to prevent Jowan’s fall or where Jowan is now), “I feel like that would be impossible; none of us usually manage to get everything done we wanted to,” she replies. 

“Well, for what it’s worth, I’m glad Duncan was there to get you out of trouble,” Alistair says sincerely with a small smile at her. 

She feels her mouth curve up in a true smile, “Thank you.” 

He grins and turns to Amdir, “So what about you?” 

“Killed the bann’s son and his bodyguards for raping my friend,” Amdir replies easily, sidestepping a particularly muddy section of the road. 

Morrigan and Alistair turn to stare at him, and she attempts to see if sending out a small burst of ice magic at the swarm of flies will deter them (unfortunately, it mostly doesn’t) 

“Well, I am glad to see that my expectations of the nobility have been met,” Morrigan says tartly. 

“I’m so sorry—is your friend alright?” Alistair asks, shooting a nasty glance at Morrigan. 

“She’s one of the strongest people I know; it will take more than that to bring her down,” Amdir replies firmly and draws out one of his knife as they hear something rustling in the bushes. 

Alistair draws out his sword, Morrigan hands flare blue, and she lets ice creep over her skin, and they all blink when a mabari hound jumps through the bushes (she thinks it looks familiar; was it one from the camp at Ostagar? It must have run far to get here). Its jaws move into something that looks like a doggy grin before it turns around and growls. A pack of darkspawn appear, and the battle begins. As she swings her staff around and fires off ice spells and lightning and arcane bolts, she is relieved that despite whatever injuries she sustained at Ostagar, her spells come to life as quickly as ever, and her ice wall neatly impales a few of the darkspawn. Their new companions are very effective as well; the mabari had torn a few of the darkspawn’s throats out (she was a bit worried about him being infected by the Blight, but given that he had somehow survived until now, perhaps he had some sort of immunity?), and Morrigan had actually transformed herself into a giant spider (and she _had_ to ask her about that once they had some time. The magic of the Wilds was different from the Circles, and even if she didn’t wish to turn into a giant spider herself because she was a bit worried about the sensation, it was fascinating to see) and had torn off the limbs and heads of some of the darkspawn. 

When all of the darkspawn were dead, the mabari barked happily and walked straight up to her. 

“I think he was out there looking for you; Mabari are like that,” Alistair said approvingly as the mabari attempted to lick her hand. 

Morrigan sighed, cracking her neck, “Does this mean we’re going to have that mangy beast following us around now? Wonderful.” 

“He’s not _mangy,”_ Alistair practically cooed, kneeling beside the mabari to get a closer look at him. 

She pet the mabari on the head (he was so _cute_ ), and he woofed happily and rolled around on his back. He then looked hopefully at her staff, and when she raised her eyebrow and put the staff firmly back on her back, Amdir grabbed a stick and handed it to her. 

“He deserves some fun for helping us kill darkspawn right?” he commented when Morrigan gave him a look of disgust. 

She laughed and threw the stick, and the mabari barked, wagged his tail, and chased after it. 

Alistair grinned at her side (she hadn’t realized until now that she hadn’t seen him this happy since she had woken up), “You should be honored, mabari are very picky about who they choose.” 

“I am,” she replied, as the mabari came racing back with the stick, dropped it at her feet, and wagged his tail so hard she wondered if it was possible for it to fall off. 

“Thought of a name?” he asked as she threw the stick again. 

“Hadn’t actually thought that far; any suggestions?” she asks him, watching the mabari happily race toward the stick. 

“He did just help us kill a ton of darkspawn so…Barkspawn?” Alistair suggested as the mabari returned. 

Morrigan rolled her eyes, and Amdir groaned, and she giggled, “That’s terrible; I love it. Barkspawn it is then,” she said, crouching down and scratching Barkspawn behind the ears. 

“You can’t be serious?” Morrigan protested with a pained expression. 

“Why not? It’s not like you have to take care of it,” Amdir pointed out, “We get the best parts about having a dog; we get to play with it, and Iluuser is the one who actually has to do all the work of taking care of it.” 

“Thank you so much,” she said dryly, standing up again. 

“We now have a dog, and Alistair is still the dumbest one in the party,” Morrigan commented darkly. 

Alistair made a noise of protest, and she frowned, and perhaps mabari really were as in tune with their masters as the stories went because Barkspawn nudges Morrigan just enough to make her step into a puddle. As Morrigan curses and throws insults at the dog, Alistair laughs in delight (a good sound given how still he had been before), and Amdir throws her an amused look, but doesn’t say anything. 

As they approach the bridge that leads into Lothering, they are stopped by a group of thugs lead by a grinning bandit who demands ten silvers as a “toll.” 

Morrigan sniffs in distaste and declares that they should teach these ruffians a lesson. Amdir doesn’t bother to say anything, but nods in agreement, and his hands are already inching toward his back. She thinks that they should perhaps save their energy for the actual horde, so she tells the bandits that it would be better for them not to attack Grey Wardens. 

“Grey Wardens? Aren’t they the ones that killed the king?” the dull one asks. 

The talkative bandit leader smiles nastily, “Traitors to Ferelden. Teyrn Loghain put quite the bounty on any who are found. Take them.” 

They don’t have time to react to the revelation that they’ve been branded traitors to the throne since the bandits all draw their weapons and charge at them ( _Traitors?)_ They may have been trying to take them alive at first, but given the intensity in which Alistair is bashing them in the head with his shield and then gutting them, Amdir killing three bandits in quick sucecsion with a swift stab and push, and the way the bridge has iced over, the remaining bandits start to get serious. Not that it helps since Morrigan has a nasty range of entropy spells (she doesn’t think she’s seen better at the Circle), and Barkspawn is perfectly capable of knocking a man down and tearing out his throat. 

“Traitors?” she asks, when all the bandits lay dead at their feet (this is the first time she’s actually killed a human being, but they were trying to kill her, and so it’s…better maybe. This is not the time to be squeamish. In the end, it’s not so different from killing darkspawn, even if this instance leaves a bad taste in her mouth. She needs to find a bathhouse) 

“Loghain’s blaming us for Ostagar. I guess he couldn’t say King Cailan and the army and the wardens just died in a freak accident,” Alistair said angrily, the slightly lost look back in his eyes. 

Amdir wipes his dagger off on one of the bandit corpses and slides it easily back into its sheath, “We’re going to need to be quiet then,” he comments, digging into the pocket of the bandit leader and drawing out a purse that clinked, “No more announcing ourselves as Wardens if we can help it. I guess it’s good they never got around to giving us the official armor.” 

Alistair snorts, “Aw, I’m going to cry. They were so pretty.” 

“What happened to yours?” she asks, bending down to help Amdir search through the bodies (they are ridiculously short on coin, now that she thinks about it. All she has is some paltry winnings from card games back at the Circle, and she feels as though her companions don’t have much more). 

“It broke a bit before the two of you arrived. They didn’t have a spare lying around, so I just got what I could from the king’s quartermaster,” Alistair said wistfully, catching the purse she tossed at him. 

“Why am I not surprised?” Morrigan commented, standing at the side, examining a ring that one of the bandits had been carrying. 

“Hey, it’s not like I kept my Templar armor,” Alistair protested, “Plus, even if I did, it’s harder than you think to fight in skirts.” 

“ _I_ manage,” she pointed out, patting Barkspawn on the head as he brought her a purse from one of the bodies. 

“I’d been meaning to ask you about that; how are you running in those robes?” Alistair asked her as she stood up, “The Warden mages all wore pants.” 

“Lots of practice, but now I wish I had a chance to get a Warden mage uniform,” she replies sadly (Enchanter Curtis had made sure they could fight with their feet tied much less just in robes, but she would still welcome the chance to have pants. It would be so much more convenient to fight in) 

“Yeah, you would have looked good in it,” Alistair comments automatically before his eyes widen, “I mean—everyone would look good in them—not that you don’t look good right now—er—” 

“ _Anyway_ ,” Amdir cuts in, shooting them an amused look as she blinks (Alistair is beginning to look a bit red, and Morrigan has the perfect face of disgust), “No matter how stylish this armor is, it’s probably good we don’t have them. Low profile, right?” 

“Right,” she agrees, giving Alistair a considering look (he’s still a bit pink, and she cannot deny that his unintended compliment has left a warm feeling in her chest. Still, this could complicate matters. And, although they have never said anything or made any promises, there is still Cullen. Cullen, who she needs to have a private word with as soon as possible to see where they stand, now that she is both a maleficar and a warden. He will be at the Tower, and perhaps she can finally find out if he actually wants to try to pursue a future or something with her despite all that has happened), and they enter Lothering for the first and only time. 


	8. Trevelyan: Interlude

She will later come to see the years between Iluuser’s visit and the explosion at Kirkwall as a time of peace. At the time though, it didn’t feel that way. Despite acceding to the First Enchanter’s suggestion, the Knight Commander still held a grudge against Oscar, and it showed. Oscar’s room had more inspections than perhaps the rest of the Enchanters combined, his every request to go take a trip to Markham to see Clarice is denied, and he gets stuck minding the tiny apprentice mages more often than not (she thinks they really should have rethought that strategy though because Oscar has enthusiastically taken a few of them under his wing, and now his tiny minions do his every bidding). For the most part, Oscar copes. He finds new places to stash his contraband sweets and cards and money all over the tower, he writes long letters complaining of the circumstances to both of his sisters, and the tiny apprentice mages adore him. 

He still manages to have friendly card games with some of the Templars, even though no one believes that he had nothing to do with the lyrium shortage. She’s not entirely sure how he manages it; she thinks that it maybe has something to do with the fact that everyone knows that his fury was mainly directed at Damian, and that none of the Templars that Oscar usually palled around with had had their lyrium cut off during the shortage. Still, even if he still has some friends in the Templar ranks, he also made a few new enemies with the stunt. Most of the new recruits actually affected by the shortage are so weak that they have to be shipped off to city and village Chantries (including Damian, and even if she will always maintain that Oscar and Marcel were the dumbest idiots alive to concoct such a plan, she is thankful that he is gone along with his catcalling friends), but some of the new recruits had friends that remain in the Tower, and they are not particularly happy with Oscar. 

The fourth time Oscar nearly gets the shit kicked out of him by some Templars who had taken offense that their friends had suffered and been shipped off to the middle of nowhere (the previous three times, he had been rescued by one of his Templar friends, a well-timed static cage by herself, and Marcel knocking over three bookshelves), Andi dragged him away from the Templars that she had rained mud on and kicked in the crotch (Andi had gotten more creative with her spellwork over the years, especially for dealing with Templars) and screamed at him to write to his sister and go to the wardens. 

Oscar refused. 

“I’m not leaving,” he said, crossing his arms in front of him and leaning against the wall. 

Andi snarled and pulled at her hair, “What the hell Oscar,” she snapped, “Your sister is the fucking _Warden-Commander._ Write to her, and tell her you want to join up.” 

“You know why I’m not leaving,” Oscar replied simply, looking at her. 

Andi groaned and closed her eyes, “And you _know_ why _I’m_ not leaving,” she hissed. 

Oscar sighed, “You know, it’s not like you can’t fight for reform from the outside,” he says tiredly (and she has heard this argument between them almost since Oscar first dragged her to their table. Andi has always hated how the Circle works, and as the years have gone by, while she works on creating connections in the Tower and climbing the ranks, Andi has been seeking out other like-minded mages. It makes her relationship with Oscar, tumultuous already, more strained, since Oscar doesn’t especially like the Circle, but neither does he like the Libertarians. Andi thinks he’s wasting his talents, hanging out with the Aequitarians, and he thinks she’s being reckless, and she snaps that he’s one to talk, and then they’re at it again). 

“And I’ve told you, fighting from the outside is completely useless,” Andi replied, glaring at him, “It’s too easy for the Chantry and the Circle to ignore outside voices. We don’t live in the middle of a damned lake, but it’s hard enough to get messages out, much less receive them, as you well know. The Libertarians—” 

“The Libertarians are sometimes too willing to do whatever they think is necessary to accomplish their goals,” Oscar cut in darkly. 

Andi shot a nasty look at him, “Pot calling the kettle black much?” 

Oscar bristled, “What’s that supposed to mean?” 

“You can’t be serious; you drive half of the new Templar recruits into delirium to get revenge on that blighted toerag—” 

“You were completely on board with that plan—” 

“To get back at that Maker-forsaken bag of shit, not to make a personal enemy out of the Knight Commander, not to mention half the Templars stationed here—” 

“Yes, because the Libertarians make the Knight Commander so happy—” 

“That’s not the point—” 

“If you want to put yourself in the firing line, go ahead, Andi, but don’t ask me to save myself and leave you there,” Oscar snapped. 

Andi snorted, “Don’t be self-righteous, Oscar, and cut it out with this sacrifice shit. I’m not the one who’s getting dragged and beat up every other week—” 

“If I hadn’t warned you guys about the Knight-Captain taking a turn in his rounds, you and all your Libertarian friends could have easily ended up in the dungeons—” 

“We weren’t discussing anything illegal—” 

“Do you think they care? They don’t need much of an excuse—” 

“And that’s why I have to stay!” Andi yelled, “Because if we all run away instead of trying to take control, that leaves all the people who can’t leave weakened. Here, I can protect people.” 

“Is that what you think you’re doing? Protecting me?” Oscar asked, reaching out and stroking Andi’s cheek with the back of his fingers, “Despite what you think Andi, I’m not useless in a fight.” 

“That’s not what I saw,” grumbled Andi, leaning into his touch, “And I’m not staying for _you.”_

“I know, but _I_ am staying for you,” Oscar replies earnestly, looking her in the eyes. 

Andi flushed red and looked away, “I never asked you to.” 

“And yet, here I am,” Oscar said lightly, clasping her hands in his and looking at their intertwined fingers, “Also, I’m worried about what trouble Lea will get into without me. And who will remind Marcel to eat?” 

“Stupid,” Andi grumbled, leaning into him, and as she wound her arms around his neck and they began to slowly kiss, Rasleanne sighed and elbowed Marcel. 

“Come on; we better go before they start having sex on that table,” she said glumly from experience as Oscar began backing Andi into said table. 

Marcel barely glanced up from his book, “Oh, are they done fighting? And they haven’t broken up again? Amazing, they’ve finally matured a bit.” 

She dragged him by the arm, trying to block out whatever noises Andi and Oscar were making, “Marcel, walk _faster._ Also, why aren’t you mad they’re having sex in your quarters?” she asked, kicking the door shut behind them. 

Marcel shrugged, “I’m sure this isn’t the first time. Besides, it’s not like I spend much time there.” 

Given that Marcel had a cot set up in the corner of the library, this was probably true. Still, it was the principle of the thing. She knew they had to snatch up any opportunity possible since who knew when they may manage to again, but still, there should be limits. And an awareness of whether or not they were about to traumatize the people around them _again._

“Wait,” she said suspiciously, turning to Marcel, “Have they had sex in _my_ quarters?” 

Marcel flipped the page of his book, “Probably best to not think about it,” he said diplomatically. 

She shuddered and vowed to clean her quarters from top to bottom (who knew what they could have been up to?). And yet, even with their propensity to mentally scar her, they really were one of the longest-lived couples that she knew (if you didn’t count the hundreds of times they had broken up, which she didn’t because the longest that lasted was a week and the shortest an hour before they were back together again, bickering and laughing). Mages were not allowed to marry (another thing that she would never have), but she knew that Oscar had offered Andi a ring sometime after Iluuser’s visit (she suspected that a pair of rings had been his sister’s gift to him), and Andi had turned red, to the point that her skin nearly matched her hair, and she had accepted. They wore the rings on necklaces concealed beneath their robes since it wasn’t as if the Knight Commander needed _more_ excuses to get Oscar in trouble, but sometimes, Oscar’s hand glinted gold instead of silver, and she had seen Andi draw the ring out occasionally and look at it and smile. 

But, that didn’t mean that trying to talk to them about their relationship was easy. 

“How did you know Oscar loved you?” she asked Andi one time. 

Andi looked up at her incredulously, “What kind of question is _that?”_

She shrugged, looking down at her plate, “Well, I obviously don’t know what to look for, and you and Oscar—” 

“We’re not _in love!”_ Andi insisted, face turning red. 

Rasleanne gave her a blank stare. “You’re practically married.” 

“That’s not the point!” Andi protested and afterwards refused to talk anymore about her and Oscar, fielding off her questions with a glare and an attempted stabbing with a fork. 

Asking Oscar wasn’t all that straightforward either. 

“How did you know Andi loved you?” she asked Oscar one time when Andi wasn’t around (she’d probably try to strangle Oscar if she was) 

Oscar laughed and looked dreamily off into the distance, “The first time I saw Andi was when she arrived at the Circle,” he recounted, “She was scowling, and she kicked the Templar guarding her in the shins as soon as possible and ran away. I fell in love right then and there.” 

“Weren’t you like ten?” she pointed out, “Marcel said she arrived a little after he did. And plus, that doesn’t answer my question.” 

Oscar waved his hand dismissively, “I know what I felt when I felt it. Plus if I told you all about Andi’s adorable, lovey-dovey confessions, she’d—” 

“I’d what, Oscar?” Andi asked, looming up from behind him. 

He turned and grinned at her ferocious expression, “I was about to tell dear Lea about how you were so cute when you—” 

Andi slammed a hand over his mouth and then quickly dragged him off by the ear, Oscar still grinning the entire time. 

And this is how they are, how they always have been, and she hopes that this is how they will always be but even she can see the cracks that begin to appear. She is twenty-one when she is made a full Enchanter mainly for her work in the Circle gardens (Cleo has thrived and has garnered her much admiration) and also because she has cajoled and smiled and gently pushed her way up the ranks of the other mages of Ostwick (it’s not that hard to persuade some of the other mages to give her their garden duty, and it gives her even more land to work with, which gives her even more of an opportunity to show her worth and get promoted). While Oscar is proud of her, Andi isn’t. 

“How many favors did you call in to get yourself there? You’re good Lea, but you can’t have made Enchanter without some help. What if we need to get Oscar out of trouble again? _”_ Andi demanded, waving her arms around furiously, “Or what if we need to sneak out another mage? You’ve _wasted_ your influence on what? Getting a better perch in a gilded cage?” 

“I _can_ help more people from this position,” she pointed out, uncomfortably tapping the table. 

Andi snorted, “That’s what they all say,” she said darkly, “And then they sit on their hands and hem and haw and say that unfortunately, there’s nothing they can do.” 

“Lay off, Andi,” Oscar said tiredly, “Can’t you be happy for her?” 

Andi whirled to face him, “You’re not her father or her brother, Oscar,” she snapped, “She’s not something you have to coddle. You don’t have to make up your failings as an older brother with her.” 

She winced (Andi always went for the weak spots, the pain points, in a fight, be it physical or verbal. She could never restrain herself, even if as soon as the words were out of her mouth, she regretted them. But she would never apologize, she would simply rub her mouth worriedly and stand glaring at her opponent, daring them to deny what she had said) 

Oscar’s mouth turned down, “That’s not the point, Andi,” he said, his voice cold, “She worked hard for this.” 

“Yes, when she should have been charming Enchanter Marian into getting her Templar lover to help us out instead of twittering away with the senior enchanters to play their game!” Andi sneered. 

She looked down at her hands, “I can talk to Enchanter Marian,” she said in a small voice (was it selfish to want to move up? Andi called it a gilded cage; she wasn’t wrong, given what she could have been if she wasn’t a mage, but that was half the reason she had worked so hard to move up. She couldn’t have the glory that she had been originally trained for, so she was chasing a fragment of it, since a perch in a gilded cage was the only permissible role of power that a Circle mage could have) 

“And how are you going to convince her or her lover?” Andi asked, “You have no leverage on them anymore; you used it all up!” 

She looked up at Andi, “I can talk to her,” she repeated, “She likes me—plus me being an Enchanter means I have access to ingredients in the apothecary that are usually locked up. I can leverage that.” 

“Make sure you do,” Andi replied with a glare and strode away. 

She looked at Oscar who sighed but made no move to follow her. 

“I’d just make her mood worse,” Oscar said, noticing her questioning look. 

“You usually don’t care,” she commented carefully (usually Oscar followed Andi, dodging her kicks and curses, grinning the entire time, trading back sharp barbs until Andi calmed down and giggled). 

Oscar sighed, “I usually don’t,” he agreed, lacing his fingers in front of him, “Because usually I think I can eventually cheer her up. But—I’m not sure how well I can do that anymore.” 

“You’ve always managed in the past,” she says quickly, a rising sense of panic beginning in her stomach (Oscar and Andi have broken up more times than anyone can remember, but she has never heard this note of uncertainty in his voice regarding Andi.) 

Oscar nods slowly, standing up, “And so we have,” he acknowledges, “Better go see if I still can, shouldn’t I?” 

And he goes off, and she guesses that he does manage to alleviate at least some of Andi’s dark mood since later Andi silently slid her a basket of fresh pastries from the kitchen before she had even had a chance to tell her that Enchanter Marian had agreed to talk to her lover. It’s as much of an apology that she will get (Andi will never say the words, but the degree of her regret has always been measured by the fanciness of the food that she bullies out of the kitchens, and these pastries have fresh fruit and delicate, painstakingly drizzled icing on them), so she takes a bite and tells Andi the news. 

And so, they all continue muddling along. She grows new plants in the gardens and the greenhouses (Cleo is thriving well, and sometimes she can convince the kitchens to give her a rack of lamb as a treat for her darling. She has also figured out the precise soil composition that Andraste’s Grace does best in, and soon the shady part of the garden is blanketed with them), and continues to smile and socialize with the other Enchanters because despite Ostwick’s reputation as a dull Circle, Circle politics anywhere mean that without constant jockeying, your standing goes down, and if she uses her new position to hide some apprentices for Andi to sneak out into the Mage’s Collective, she has enough favors and blackmail to keep the important people quiet about it (power is meant to serve, and isn’t it further proof of how far she is from that ideal that her first thought was her ambition and it was only later that she thought to use her position to hide the apprentices in shipments of rare herbs?). She doesn’t think she’s an especially good teacher, but her students’ patches of the gardens grow, and she is pleased with them and their efforts. 

Oscar continues dragging her into pranks and onto the training ground (he insists that if he didn’t, she wouldn’t get any exercise, and if what if she got leave to travel one day and was set upon by bandits? It would terrible if she had no battle training at all. She agrees about that part, but is still quite dubious about how useful the knowledge of the proper angle to drop buckets of lizards on people for the maximum amount of screams will come in handy in the future). He still alternately fights and cajoles with Andi, and even if her moods seem blacker than usual (every apprentice that they do not manage to sneak out and disappears in the middle of the night or wanders the halls with a branded sigil on their foreheads and blank eyes is a blow to all of them, but Andi takes each failure particularly hard), he creates colorful bouquets of flowers for her, tells her lame jokes, and generally bothers her until her face is no longer sending the smaller apprentices running just at the sight of her. He is not always successful though, and the length of their breakups get longer and longer, but she takes solace in the fact that at the very least, they always do get back together eventually. 

Andi becomes more involved with the Libertarians, often attending the meetings, even though she refuses to become an Enchanter out of protest of the Circle system. She is their main liaison with the Mage’s Collective, due to her experience with the whole lyrium smuggling debacle (apparently, although Oscar had been the one to act as the highwayman to waylay the lyrium shipments, Andi was the one who badgered and intimidated the carta dwarves into keeping their end of the bargain and helping them set traps for the shipments). The Knight Commander tries to pin the blame on Andi for all the missing apprentices (there are always some who are obviously too weak to pass the Harrowing, and a future as a runaway apostate is still better than no future at all), but Oscar always steps in and confesses to Andi’s crimes, and the Knight Commander is more than happy to have an excuse to punish Oscar. (She brings all the best salves she can concoct, and Andi angrily smears them onto his back, yelling at him to stop and let her bear the whipping next time. He points out with a tired grin that for her it wouldn’t be a whipping. He gets off relatively easily because the Knight Commander is aware that his older sister will descend upon the Tower if he is imprisoned or anything worse, and his younger sister is poised to become the youngest First Enchanter in Markham’s Circle’s history due to sheer magical power, and she could cause trouble as well. Andi would not be punished so lightly, although looking at Oscar’s flayed back that bears a scar for every single apprentice sneaked away, she doesn’t think his punishment is so light. Worth every life they save, certainly, but not light). She always fights with Oscar (more than ever, as impossible as it may seem sometimes), but she still makes sure that he gets the best food, pushes him into the stacks as a reward for helping her (Rasleanne quickly drags Marcel away before they can see or hear anymore), and anyone who tries to cause more trouble for Oscar either ends up visiting the infirmary with kidneys bruised and testicles crushed (Andi can throw a mean punch and has extremely sharp knees and elbows) or with lizards in their soup (she had never heard the Knight Commander shriek so loudly before). 

Marcel is the only one of her friends to join her in the ranks of Enchanters (Oscar easily has the talent and even teaches some of the apprentices informally, but the First Enchanter dreads that making Oscar a full Enchanter would give him too much access and influence on impressionable young minds, and the last thing the Tower needs is another prankster. The joke is on her because Oscar already has tiny minions that have taken up his pranking banner) Andi yells at him as well, but Marcel doesn’t even bother to look up from his book (and even Andi isn’t reckless enough to pull it away from him. The one time a senior enchanter had pulled Marcel’s book away from him to berate him for reading in class, Marcel had fixed the senior enchanter with a glare to rival Andi’s and had proceeded to rattle off the last five minutes of lecture verbatim with added commentary of all the minute points of spirit magic that the senior enchanter had gotten wrong). Really, not much changes about Marcel’s duties; he still spends more time in the library than in his quarters, he still carries at least one book with him everywhere, and he still hoards far too many books, although now he has official dispensation to do so as Senior Archivist. 

The escaped apprentices result in stricter curfew and restrictions for everyone in the Tower, and tensions are running a bit high, but the First Enchanter still manages to talk down the Knight Commander from anything drastic. A few scuffles between Templars and mages are to be expected, and if there are more than usual, that doesn’t change the circumstances too much. And so, even though things were not entirely stable, she thinks it could have proceeded much as it was, until when she is twenty-two, the apostate Anders blows up the Chantry in Kirkwall and throws everything into disarray. 


	9. Amell: Lothering

For the first village that she had ever visited (going to Ostagar they had stuck to the wilderness and the woods), Lothering is somewhat of a disappointment. She’s not sure what she was expecting, but it’s small and muddy, people are huddled in small groups, and there is a looming, ever-present sense of despair in the air about the incoming darkspawn horde. 

(Later, when she mentions that she visited Lothering to her cousin, Hawke will laugh and say that even if she had caught the village at a better time, she probably still would have been somewhat disappointed. It was usually muddy and small, just that there would have been more cows and chicken and other livestock had she come earlier. Still, Hawke will get a wistful look in her eye and sigh about how the mud in Kirkwall just didn’t smell right, even after it rained) 

“Well,” Alistair comments, looking around, “At least it looks like they have a chantry, I suppose.” 

“Going to go drown your sorrows with pointless prayers?” Morrigan asked, sweetness lacing her voice like poison. 

Alistair glared at her, “Is my being upset so hard to understand? Have you never lost someone important to you? Just what would you do if your mother died?” he demanded. 

Morrigan raised her eyebrows, “Before or after I stopped laughing?” 

She glances at Morrigan and frowns. She had assumed….but just because people had parents didn’t necessarily mean they liked them. Still, she did hope the other mage was joking. 

“Right, very creepy, forget I asked,” Alistair says, shaking his head. 

“Perhaps we should stop by the Chantry?” she suggested, “Could ask around for information, light a few candles.” 

Morrigan gave her a blank look, “Don’t tell me _you’re_ one of the sheep-like faithful as well,” she said, mouth turning down. 

“Oh I get it, this is the part where we’re shocked to discover that you never had a friend your entire life,” Alistair cuts in savagely before she has a chance to come up with more placating words (Maker’s breath, she needed to find the equivalent of pushing waiting patients into Anders’ and Alissa’s views to stop a fight with these two). 

Morrigan gives a prim little sniff, “I can be friendly when I desire to. Alas, desiring to be more intelligent does not make it so.” 

Alistair rolled his eyes, and resolutely turned so that he was facing her and Tabris and not Morrigan, “Anyway, I thought we ought to talk about where we intend to go first.” 

Amdir nodded, “I still think the Circle. No offense Alistair, but if Loghain is saying that we betrayed the king, I’m not so sure if an arl is going to take our word over a teyrn’s.” 

“Still, Alistair knows the arl, and presumably left on a better note than I left Kinloch Hold,” she pointed out. 

“Wouldn’t count on that completely,” Alistair muttered, hitching his shield higher, “Either ways, Kinloch Hold isn’t far from Redcliffe, so we could first go to one and then the other?” 

“What do you think Morrigan?” she asks, turning to her (going back would be nice because having something familiar to hold onto would be comforting in all this change, but she fears that not enough time has passed between Jowan’s escape and now for the First Enchanter to be receptive to any ideas coming from her). 

“Go after your enemy directly. Find this man Loghain and kill him,” Morrigan said firmly with a toss of her head, “The rest of this business with the treaties can then be done in safety.” 

Alistair snorted, “Yes, he certainly wouldn’t see that coming, and it’s not like he has the advantage of an army and experience and—” 

“I was asked for my opinion, and I gave it,” Morrigan snapped, “If your wish is to come up with reasons why something cannot be done, we will stand here until the darkspawn are upon us.” 

“Moving us back to the actual issue at hand,” Amdir said, sharing a look of exasperation with her, “Circle Tower first? That way we have mages that can potentially spring us out of the dungeons if the arl doesn’t believe us?” 

Alistair shrugs, “Sounds good to me; you okay with this, Iluuser?” he asks her. 

She slowly nods, taking in a deep breath (well, no matter the response, they have the treaties, and she will be able to see everyone again), “Alright,” she says, as Barkspawn nudges against her, “Morrigan, are you okay with going there?” 

“Why, because you think they will attempt to imprison me?” Morrigan asked, raising an eyebrow, “They can try.” 

(She supposes they can always claim that she’s a warden. Or maybe a traveling performer given her odd choice in clothing.) 

Alistair looks less than impressed and looks on the verge of saying something uncomplimentary, but Amdir quickly kicks his foot and jerks his head toward the inner gates of the village. 

“Templar on guard,” he mutters. 

She quickly moves her staff into her hand and whispers a veil into place to make it look more like a typical walking stick and to mute the pattern of her robes (this is about the limit of her illusory abilities), and she sees Morrigan grudgingly glance at the Templar, then her, then do the same. They pass by the guard without too much trouble, busy as he seems with the constant stream of refugees, a ranting refugee that Morrigan eyes and mutters about turning into a frog to shut him up (both she and Barkspawn push her along before she can find out if Morrigan really can), and a chantry sister arguing with a greedy merchant (both she and Amdir stop to glare at him a bit, but really they don’t want to attract more attention than their little group is already getting, so they continue) 

They stop outside of a tavern and look up at the sign. 

“Good place to try to get some information,” Amdir suggests, “Could also try to pick up some supplies.” 

She nods, “And hopefully they’ll know where some kind of bathhouse is.” 

(She still hasn’t given up hope. It’s a long trek to Lake Calenhad, and she will take warm water wherever she can get it) 

Morrigan sighs, wrinkling her nose, “By the smell of this place, I doubt that very much.” 

They walk in, and all the soldiers turn to look at them. By the way their grins turn vicious and the clank of armor being shifted, and Barkspawn begins to growl, she thinks they have made a mistake. 

“Hey, didn’t we spend all morning asking after people of this description?” the bearded soldier calls out, “An elf, a blonde man, and a Free Marcher mage?” 

Their leader turns around to face them, “It seems we were lied to,” he says darkly. 

A red-haired Chantry sister suddenly walks in between them and says with a soothing (but slightly Orlesian sounding) voice, “Gentlemen, surely there is no need for trouble. These are no doubt simply more poor souls seeking refuge.” 

The leader of the soldiers sneers, “They are more than that. Now stay out of the way, Sister. You protect these traitors, you get the same as them.” 

Alistair’s eyes had narrowed from the word traitor, Morrigan already had a hand on her staff, Amdir was eyeing exit routes with a knife slipped in his hand, Barkspawn’s growls had become a snarl, and she had been letting ice creep over her skin since she had seen the soldiers. 

“You wouldn’t like to reconsider?” she asked lightly, letting her veil drop and reveal the glow of her staff. 

“Enough talk,” the soldier snapped, “Take the Wardens into custody. Kill the sister and anyone else who gets in the way.” 

All the soldiers draw their weapons, but Amdir has already snuck behind a one of them and proceeds to slit his throat. She hits the soldiers closest to her in the head with her staff and lets winter rise around them while Barkspawn knocks them over. The Chantry sister is surprisingly fast and deadly with a dagger (first Lily, now this woman. Did the Chantry teach their sisters knife skills during the long winters?), ducking and killing soldiers with a similar grace to Amdir. Morrigan has some of the soldiers ensnared in a nightmare and is smiling at their screams with her gold eyes glittering (at least she hadn’t turned into a spider), and Alistair, lips pressed together in restrained anger, bashed quite a few into unconsciousness with his shield and has his sword pointed at the throat of the captain who is down on in his knees. 

“We surrender!” the captain says quickly, eyes wide and fixed on the tip of Alistair’s sword. 

She moves to Alistair’s side, letting frost follow her every step, “Take a message to Loghain: We know what he really did,” she says with a cold smile. 

“And we’re coming for him,” Amdir says darkly, wiping his dagger off on the tunic of one of the dead soldiers. 

“I’ll tell him! Right away! Thank you!” the captain babbles as Alistair sheathes his sword. 

Morrigan watches the man run away and turns to look at her, “Are you sure that is wise? If we had killed him, there would be no witnesses. Were you not trying to keep a low profile?” 

“If they have our descriptions, there are already far too many people who can say they’ve seen us,” she points out, “There aren’t too many groups like ours wandering around.” 

Morrigan frowns, but the red haired Chantry sister cuts in, “I apologize for interfering, but I couldn’t just sit by and not help. I am Leliana, one of the lay sisters of the Chantry here in Lothering. Or I was.” 

They all turn to look at the newcomer more closely. This Leliana seems remarkably calm to have blood spattered across her robes for a Chantry sister. She had even managed to clean her dagger since the surrender and place it neatly back on her back. All in all, this woman not like any Chantry sister she has met, and judging by Alistair’s bemused expression and Amdir’s raised eyebrow, they share her opinion (Morrigan’s mouth just turns further downward, but she was expecting that) 

“You were? As in, you’re not anymore?” Amdir asked carefully, glancing at her dagger. 

Leliana nodded, “I know after what happened you will need all the help you can get. That’s why I’m coming along.” 

If her eyebrows climbed any higher, they were going to be in serious danger of falling off of her head, “Really?” she asked, tilting her head (it was true that they needed all the people they could get, but she hadn’t expected someone to _volunteer_ ), “Why?” 

“The Maker told me to,” Leliana said earnestly, and then flushed when she saw the looks they exchange (Amdir is shaking his head slightly, Morrigan looks on the verge of hexing her, and even Alistair has backed away a bit. Barkspawn on the other hand is trying to lick the woman’s hand), “I know that sounds absolutely insane, but it’s _true_. I had a dream; a _vision.”_

“More crazy? I thought we were all full up,” Alistair comments under his breath at her side. And while she somewhat agrees (Dreams and visions were all well and good inside a chantry, but she was a bit worried about someone who believed something so fervently following her out into the battlefield), Barkspawn likes her. If a mabari liked the former chantry sister, she was willing to hear her out, even if she was used to referring people seeing things to Anders in the infirmary. 

“Look at the people here,” Leliana continued, gesturing to the few people still in the tavern (the owner was still cowering behind the counter), “They are lost in their despair, and this darkness, this chaos will spread. The Maker doesn’t want this. What you do, what you are meant to do, is the Maker’s work. Let me help!” 

She glances at Amdir who shrugs, cracks his neck, and says tiredly, “Well, why not? She _is_ good in a fight.” 

She smiles at Leliana as Barkspawn happily wags his tail, “Welcome then, Leliana.” 

“Perhaps your skull was cracked worse than Mother thought,” Morrigan comments loudly with a sigh. 

The red-head beams at them, “Thank you. I appreciate being given this chance. I will not let you down.” 

“Speaking of which,” she says as Amdir gathers together all the coin he has managed to scrounge and places it on the table, “You wouldn’t happen to know if there’s a bathhouse of some kind nearby? It’s just that with all this fighting, my clothes are filthy and there’s blood everywhere, and I feel disgusting—” 

Leliana laughs, “I know the feeling. Unfortunately, there is not an actual bathhouse in Lothering, but I am sure the nice man who owns the tavern would not mind heating up a bath for you?” 

She turns to look at the cowering owner who shrieks, backs away from them, and starts slowly moving up the stairs, “I’ll get it ready! I promise! Right away!” 

As the man hurried up the stairs, Amdir rolled his eyes and scoops all the coins into a small pouch, “Well, while you’re busy, _Lady_ Amell, I’m going to go look for actual supplies.” 

“Cleanliness is next to godliness,” she replied primly, “Besides, I’m not even sure we’ll get access to Kinloch Hold’s bathhouses when we get there, so I need to take whatever chance I get.” 

“Well, I’m taking Barkspawn,” Amdir said as Barkspawn barked happily, “You coming, Alistair?” 

As the others figure out what they’re going to do (Alistair agrees to go with Amdir, and Leliana wants to go pick up her stuff and insists on taking Morrigan with her because she thinks that she has some clothes that will fit her. Morrigan protests loudly against going with a person who has clearly lost their mind, but Leliana is cheerfully persistent, and Iluuser points out that either she’s going to be stuck waiting for her in a smelly tavern or she can go with Alistair or go with Leliana, and she goes off with the former chantry sister, grumbling the entire time). 

The bath is perfect, although she can’t tell if it’s because the tavern owner was genuinely terrified into producing perfection (given the state of the tavern, he can’t be motivated very often) or just because she’s desperate to get the grime off of her skin. Either ways it’s nice and steaming hot, there’s soap, and she gets all the blood and grease and Maker knows what else out of her hair and off of her skin. She leans a leisurely arm out of the tub and murmurs a cleaning spell over her poor ragged robes (she’ll have to get more from the Circle. Or maybe she can buy some regular clothes when they get some more money. Pants would be nice) and the ragged towel placed at the side (for safety). She dries herself off and manages to get her hair into some of the less complicated braids she knows how to do (there’s no mirror) and ties them off with some thread picked off from the sleeve of her robes (she’s used to it; it’s not like ribbons were often brought into the Circle). 

When she comes down the stairs, feeling more human since, well, since before her Harrowing, she sees Alistair sitting at one of the tables, looking into the fire. 

“Weren’t you with Amdir?” she asked, securing her staff against her back. 

He shrugged, glancing back at her, “He’s doing some things with poisons and traps for money; I felt like I was just getting in the way, so I came here to wait for you.” 

“Thank you,” she said with a small smile, sitting by him. They both look at the fire in silence for a few moments before she has a thought (Morrigan is currently preoccupied, and the lay sisters’ quarters are never actually in the Chantry, so…) 

She turns to Alistair, “Do you want to go to the chantry and light a candle for Duncan?” 

He looks at her with surprise, “That—that would be really nice, yeah.” 

“Do you want me to go with you?” (It was always a lonely feeling to put a candle for the lost on the altar. It was always nice to have someone who, even if they didn’t know the deceased that well, would listen to your stories of who they were). 

His mouth slowly quirks into a smile, “I would like that—if you don’t mind, of course.” 

“I did not know him long, but he saved me from the Aeonar; it would be my honor to accompany you,” she says quietly. 

Alistair nods and stands up, “Well, let’s get going before Morrigan gets back and starts mocking us relentlessly.” 

She smiles ruefully as she follows him out the door, “You really don’t like her, do you? What _did_ she say to you while we were out?” 

Alistair sighs, “Let’s just say that she seems to have no idea what grief is. I might have been—somewhat in denial at first, and then maybe I wasn’t in the best state, but that’s not so unreasonable is it?” 

“No; I’m sorry for your loss,” she answers (such a trite statement, but what else could she say?), as they quickly move off to the side of the road to avoid a dark-haired girl chasing a pig with a long staff that had a red orb on one end and a giant blade on the other. She raises her eyebrows, but this close to the Wilds, she supposes there would be a lot of apostates. 

(When she meets Hawke in Kirkwall and sees her staff, she puts two and two together and tells Hawke. 

“Mr. Snuffles,” Hawke said wistfully, “He was the best pig ever. I’m still sad we couldn’t take him with us.” 

“You kept _pigs_ in Ferelden?” Isabella asked disbelievingly, flipping a card across the table. 

“He sounds _adorable,”_ Merrill said cheerfully, examining her hand. 

Hawke launched into a long spiel about how Mr. Snuffles had singlehandedly managed to charge a bunch of visiting Templars that had taken interest in the Hawke household and had terrorized them long enough for her and her father to hide any incriminating evidence. 

“When I saw you, you were chasing the pig with your _staff,”_ she pointed out. 

Hawke waved a hand dismissively, “There were darkspawn coming, Templars had other things to worry about, and plus, that staff was the only thing that could force Mr. Snuffles to come to bath-time.”) 

Alistair wearily rubs a hand over his eyes, “Yeah, I am too. The wardens…they were the closest thing I had to a family,” he said softly. 

“You said that you were raised by Arl Eamon?” she asked, sidestepping a giant puddle. 

“Did I say that?” Alistair asked, a smile spreading across his face that didn’t quite reach his eyes, “I meant that dogs raised me. Giant, slobbering dogs from the Anderfels. A whole pack of them, in fact.” 

She snorted, “You could have done worse, I suppose,” she offered with a small grin. 

“Hey, those are my foster parents you’re impugning,” he mock-complained lightly, “And they were very special. They were flying dogs you see. Surprisingly strict parents too, and devout Andrastians to boot.” 

She covered her mouth as she laughed (he was hiding something, but it had been awhile since she had laughed this hard), “It does explain the smell,” she said with mock-seriousness as they crossed the bridge. 

He widened his eyes comically and gasped, “Amdir was right; you are a clean freak,” he intoned with a grin, “Besides, it wasn’t until I was eight that I discovered you didn’t have to lick yourself clean. Old habits die hard you know.” 

“Mm,” she murmured as they caught sight of the chantry, “And these Andrastian, flying dogs gave you to the Templars?” 

He sighed, “And I thought I had managed to knock you off track,” he complained, running a hand through his hair, “Dogs aren’t distracting enough?” 

“I love dogs,” she replied lightly, “But I’d also like to know what kind of situation we’re going to be arriving in when we show up at Arl Eamon’s castle.” 

“Fair enough,” he said, letting out a breath and grimacing a bit as they approached the chantry, “Let’s see, how do I explain this…I’m a bastard,” he held up a hand, “And before you make any smart comments, I mean the fatherless kind.” 

They entered the chantry, Alistair holding out the door for her to step through, and he continued in a lower voice in the sanctuary, “My mother was a serving girl in Redcliffe Castle who died when I was very young. Arl Eamon wasn’t my father, but he took me in anyhow and gave me a roof over my head.” 

She paid a Chantry sister for two white candles, and neatly carved Duncan’s name into both with her nails, lit both with a small spark of lightning, and handed one to Alistair. He nodded his thanks and stared at the candle contemplatively, “He was good to me, and he didn’t have to be. Kind of like Duncan. I respect the man, and I don’t blame him anymore for sending me off to the Chantry when I was old enough.” 

“Why did they send he send you off to the Chantry?” she asked, looking at him (it seemed odd to her, to have taken in an orphan boy that could be raised into a faithful household knight, and then to simply turn around and hand him to the Chantry when Alistair didn’t strike her as especially devout) 

“Arl Eamon eventually married a young woman from Orlais, which caused all sorts of problems between him and the king because it was so soon after the war. But he loved her,” Alistair said, walking up to the altar. 

“Anyhow, the new arlessa resented the rumors which pegged me as his bastard. They weren’t true, but of course they existed. The arl didn’t care, but _she_ did,” Alistair looked down, “So off I was packed to the nearest monastery at age ten. Just as well, the arlessa made sure the castle wasn’t a home to me by that point. She _despised_ me.” 

She winces at the way Alistair emphasizes the last words (not all the mages in the tower liked children, this was true, but none of them had outright _hated_ any of them), “If you want her to suddenly develop unpleasant boils when we visit, just say the word,” she said firmly, “Alissa taught me a few nasty hexes that are fairly simple.” 

Alistair lets out a surprised laugh, “That—can’t say it doesn’t sound somewhat appealing, but that really isn’t necessary,” he said as she walks to his side, “She felt threatened by my presence, I can see that now. I can’t say I blame her. She wondered if the rumors were true herself, I bet.” 

“Not an excuse,” she insisted, crossing her arms, “She didn’t have to be your friend, but neither did she have to drive you out.” 

“You know, Amdir said something similar,” Alistair mused, “We talked a bit when you were still recovering. Except _he_ offered to steal all her jewelry, which by the way, I’m also not taking him up on. Anyway, I remember I had this amulet with Andraste’s holy symbol on it. The only thing I had of my mother’s. I was so furious at being sent away, I tore it off and threw it against a wall, and it shattered.” 

He let out a breath and stared at the wall, “Stupid, stupid thing to do. The arl came by the monastery a few times to see how I was, but I was _stubborn_. I hated it there and blamed him for _everything_ …and eventually he just stopped coming.” 

“You were young,” she said gently, reaching out and placing a hand on his arm. 

He blinked with surprise at her hand but didn’t shrug her off, “And raised by dogs,” he said lightly, “Or I may as well have been, the way I acted. But maybe all young bastards act like that, I don’t know.” 

She chuckled and shook her head, “If we are talking about accidentally destroying treasured possessions, it’s not just young bastards. I…didn’t have anything that would link me back to my original home, but I did have a scarf.” 

“A scarf?” he asked, looking at her. 

She nodded, “Most families don’t want a mage tracing them back so it’s not uncommon for children to arrive without much. I am told I arrived dressed warmly and snugly, but with no other possessions. I outgrew the rest of the winter clothing obviously, but I still had the scarf.” 

(It had been red and warm, and she had often run her hand down it, imagining the woman in her faded memories tying it around her neck before watching her board the ship that would take her to Ferelden.) 

“What happened to it?” 

She pulled a face, “It was winter and we were being silly up on the tower and throwing snow balls at each other. I had taken my scarf off because I was getting hot, but then the wind turned and blew it off into the lake…and that was that.” 

(And how she had wept, but she was eleven years old, and she didn’t have the power to somehow levitate her one connection to her real family back into her hands. Later, Jowan had tried to comfort her by saying that it wasn’t like she could have used the scarf to find her family anyway, and that is true, but she had still looked at the pillow Anders had carried with him from his home to the Tower enviously. She knew they didn’t want her, but…that scarf had been made by someone, and given to her, and she missed it terribly) 

“They didn’t let you try to get it out of the lake?” Alistair asked, eyes wide. 

She let out a short laugh, “Let a mage out onto the lake? No, besides, it had sunk by the time I had stopped crying. But enough of this; we are here for Duncan. Tell me about him?” 

He nods with a small smile as they both place the candles on the altar and begins to tell her about how Duncan had fought with the Reverend Mother to recruit him into the Grey Wardens and about the other wardens that he had met. He was in the middle of recounting the gigantic feast that had taken place after his joining, and she is giggling with her hand over her mouth (they are in a _chanry_ ) while telling him that she can’t believe that a boar that large could exist, much less be hunted down for a feast, when Amdir walks in with Barkspawn on his heels. 

“There you are,” he said, tossing them each a pack, “Got some coin and some food. Was your bath pleasant, your highness?” 

“Very,” she said with a tone of mock-imperiousness before laughing and rubbing Barkspawn’s head, “Thank you, Amdir.” 

“Yeah, you even managed to get cheese!” Alistair said excitedly, with his pack open. 

“Yeah, yeah,” Amdir said, waving him off, “But listen to this. There’s this qunari prisoner in a cage on the outskirts of town; if we can get him out, I think he would be useful.” 

“A _qunari?”_ she asked with her eyes wide (she knew there were some in Ferelden, but obviously none had visited the Circle. She had always wanted to meet one though, even if their idea about mages was…not great), “ _Really?_ Is he a Tal-vashoth mercenary? _”_

“Hang on,” Alistiar said, crossing his arms, “Why is he in a cage?” 

Amdir grimaced, “He killed a family. Won’t say why, but he seems to regret it. Plus, leaving him in a cage to starve to death or get dragged off by darkspawn seems a waste. He wants to atone by dying in battle anyway. He said he was Sten of the Beresaad, if any of you have heard of it.” 

“The _Beresaad?_ We should take him,” she said eagerly, turning to Alistair (an actual qunari from Par Vollen? She had a lot of questions, although hopefully this Sten wouldn’t attempt to collar her or stitch her mouth shut. If need be, she would encase him in ice to ask her questions, but she’d rather not because then he might not want to talk to her), “They’re the elite vanguard group of the qunari. We could use someone like that.” 

Alistair sighed, “I guess we could. And leaving him in a cage does seem a bit much, although I call last one on guard duty for this guy.” 

“Great, we just need to wait for Leliana and Morrigan to arrive then. Leliana should be useful in convincing the Revered Mother to give up the key,” Amdir stated, sitting next to them. 

They wait, and eventually Leliana and Morrigan do arrive, Leliana wreathed in smiles and Morrigan scowling. Leliana needs little prompting to convince the Revered Mother to let them have the key to the cage and then they are on their way. Before leaving though, she thinks she sees Alistair placing something red in his pack, but when Amdir asks him what he’s doing, he flushes and quickly says nothing, and she marks that as suspicious, but she’s too excited about meeting a qunari to really be thinking of anything else. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Scarf is red because Hawke's and Bethany's scarves are red.


	10. Trevelyan: Rebellion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this chapter was really hard to write.

She is twenty-two when the apostate Anders blows up the Chantry in Kirkwall, leading to Knight-Commnader Meredith ordering the Right of Anullment on the entire Kirkwall Circle and the Champion of Kirkwall Hawke standing up against the Knight-Commander in a battle that apparently involved statues coming to life and the Knight-Commander turning into a red lyrium statue at the end. Ostwick’s Circle seethes with talk of revolts going on in circles across all of Thedas, and it is only through the First Enchanter talking the Knight-Commander down from confining all of them to their quarters and pleading with all the mages to not do anything rash that only a few fights break out between some Templars and mages. Still, restrictions get tighter, the number of Templars on guard duty grows, little contact with the outside world is permitted, and she can’t even go out to the gardens anymore without a Templar following her every step. 

The arguments between Oscar and Andi rage on, Andi calling for them to rise up and join their fellow mages, Oscar arguing that that route only ends in more death and bloodshed, and Andi sneering and hurling accusations of cowardice and complacency at him. She points out to Andi that there is no Circle that has risen in revolt without being put down brutally, and Andi fires back that that isn’t the point, that there are some things worth fighting for (and there are, she agrees with that, just as she agrees that Knight Commander Meredith overstepped by calling for the Right, and that the Champion was in the right by defending the Kirkwall mages, but this? She knows that sometimes you have to break things in order to fix them, but this is not some theoretical institution, this is the place that she has lived for ten years. Do the Templars have too much control over their lives? Just from the state of Oscar’s back, she would say yes. But does it have to come to this? All out war? She fears who would not be stepping out again if it comes to that). 

Andi storms away, and her break with Oscar lasts a week, two weeks, three, and it is beginning to seem like the unthinkable has happened and Oscar and Andi have really decided to go their separate ways. And she knows it’s not much in the grand scheme of things, relationships fall apart all the time, especially in the Circle, but for her, it’s as if the sun had begun to rise in the west, or if it had suddenly begun to rain frogs instead of water, or if Marcel had stopped reading. It has been constant, all her years in the Circle, that even if Andi and Oscar fight, they will get back together. Always. But now, Andi strides about the tower alone and glaring at anyone who crosses her path, and Oscar still laughs, but his smiles no longer quite seem to reach his eyes, and it just makes the whole mess even more unsettling. Even Marcel seems thrown off by their split, actually taking time from whatever he is reading now, without any prompting from her, to quietly talk to both Oscar and Andi. Oscar simply shrugs and laughs him off, saying that they’re just taking a break, and it will be better soon, while Andi picks a fight with Marcel about his opposition to the Circles rebelling (all Marcel has ever wanted from life is an infinite supply of books and a space to read them in, so of course Marcel doesn’t want the Circles to rebel. He thinks that the Circles should instead be split into a group who doesn’t care about being confined to the tower, like him, and then a group that has perhaps a more independent approach, but of course, as Andi points out, the Chantry would never allow that either. He has quietly confided in her that in some ways, a mage rebellion is inevitable if the Chantry refuses to make any changes to the current structure of the Circles, but he hopes that somehow, cooler and more pragmatic minds in the Chantry will bend to the need for change. No one actually wants a war, do they?) 

She is twenty-three when the College of Enchanters meets for the last time and ultimately vote against seceding from the Chantry, mainly due to the urgings of Senior Enchanter Wynne (another mage of Kinloch Hold who has shaped the conflict. She wonders what Iluuser is doing; did she know the apostate Anders? She must have, he was originally from the Ferelden circle; what did she think when she had heard the news? The Champion had disappeared; had her famous cousin hidden her in one of the secret Grey Warden fortresses? Letters are more difficult than ever to get out, and the sporadic ones Oscar manages to receive seem to imply that his sister is doing what she can to get the rebel mages somewhere safe, be it in the ranks of the wardens or elsewhere. She offers to get them out as well, but Oscar tells her that he thinks they’re safe for now. The First Enchanter is in control, and no matter how much Andi’s faction might agitate, they will not go against the College of Enchanters) 

Andi storms around the Circle, refusing all attempts from her of trying to get to sit down to a meal with Oscar and spitting insults at her. 

“ _You!_ You could have at least abstained the way Marcel did!” she yelled, pointing a finger at her, “Why the _fuck_ did you vote against the secession?” 

(Seceding from the Chantry—she is unsure in her faith because isn’t she cursed in the sight of the Maker? But seceding from the Chantry feels like blasphemy, down to her very bones. Of course she knows all of the wrongs the Chantry has performed against the Circle, but she also fears mages running themselves. Power corrupts, and how would anyone make sure they didn’t turn into the Tevinter Imperium? And there is no way the Chantry would let them peacefully declare independence; this would mean all-out war, and people die in wars.) 

“You know why,” she says, standing straight, “Compromise—” 

“Depends on two parties, and there can be none, if the other party won’t bend!” Andi says furiously, eyes flashing, “You still believe them, don’t you? That we deserve to be locked up for powers we didn’t ask for? Even Oscar isn’t that dumb, Rasleanne—” 

“The College of Enchanters is in talks with the Divine,” she continues, trying to not let Andi’s vitriol sting (she does usually see the truth of matters, even if she phrases it in the worst possible way), “Hopefully we can reach some kind of agreement—” 

Andi laughs bitterly and turns away, “You keep thinking that, Rasleanne,” she calls over her shoulder, “It’s not going to happen. Tell Oscar to stay out of this or run away to his big sister. He’s not going to like what’s going to happen.” 

She doesn’t know what that means, and when she asks Oscar, he frowns. 

“I’ll try talking to her,” he says, running a hand through his hair, “Maybe I can—” 

“Maybe you should let me do it,” Marcel cuts in, looking up from his book, “She doesn’t seem to talk to either one of you right now.” 

“Do you know what’s going on, Marcel?” she asks him anxiously, “Have you heard anything?” 

He shakes his head slowly, “Unfortunately, no. The Libertarians haven’t been hanging around the library as much; Andi may have tipped them off, I don’t know.” 

“But if they’re planning something, you must have heard something—” 

“If they’re planning anything, it’s not going to start here,” Marcel said, frowning and idly tracing the leaf pattern engraved on his book, “I think…it feels like they’re waiting for something. Before they start anything.” 

“You sure?” she asks right as Oscar asks, “Waiting for what?” 

Marcel shrugs, “As sure as I can be. And as for what, well, let’s see if Andi is less in a mood to hex me than the two of you.” 

Except Andi is faster than Marcel and extremely gifted at ducking away from him whenever he can see her and knows the ins and outs of the tower just as well as Oscar. Marcel never manages to get a word in and even gets enlarged spiders thrown at him for his troubles. She tries to talk to Andi, but she’s lucky if Andi only throws spiders at her, more often, it’s a nasty entropy hex. And as for Oscar—well, he doesn’t say anything, but given the red handprint on his face and the way his smiles have an edge, she imagines their talk wasn’t productive or good either. 

News that the Rite of Tranquility could be reversed arrives at the Tower and is treated with shock, but that isn’t whatever Andi seems to be waiting for. The Divine calls for a conclave of first enchanters to discuss these findings, and debate rages for a long time about whether or not First Enchanter Melaine should go. In the end, she decides against going, citing the growing tensions in the tower, the need to keep the Knight Commander appeased, and the fact that news of whatever findings there are will doubtless be spread. The First Enchanter is confident that her fellow first enchanters will keep her informed and anyway, she is uncertain of what they are even arguing about. If the Rite can be reversed, well that’s good to know, is it not? 

She doesn’t precisely share the First Enchanter’s thoughts; the fact that the Rite can be reversed, that it isn’t an irreparable sentence worse than death— at the very least she is glad to know that. It is true that the other First Enchanters will verify whether or not this is true, but she still thinks First Enchanter Melaine should have gone. Perhaps the First Enchanter thinks by staying away, Ostwick’s Circle and its troubles will be forgotten by the Chantry, but she thinks by not going, the First Enchanter has further angered the Libertarians. There is an air of tension that is almost thick enough to cut these days, and she hasn’t seen Andi in weeks. 

When the end comes, it comes on a bright, sunny day with little warning. She is in the gardens, taking advantage of the good weather to give Cleo a proper sunning (it’s hard raising a tropical plant in the middle of the Free Marches, but she does her best with what she’s got, and she has to say that her experiment to take her mind off her problems has paid off splendidly. Cleo is the cutest man-eating flower you’ve ever seen, and she’s sure cooing at it makes her grow stronger), when she hears a noise and turns around. 

There is smoke rising from the tower, and she hears the snap of a twig and whirls around to see three mages walking toward her, staffs drawn and hands glowing with power. 

(She knows all of them. There is Franklin, an enthusiastic toady of the Libertarians, fond of scones. Maeve, a gentle voice among the harsher ones of the Libertarians, but it would be a mistake to think her any less devoted to the cause, even if on sunny days she would come out and enjoy her flowers. And Ivan, one of the people Andi was closer with in that group who Oscar often glared at.) 

“Enchanter Trevelyan,” Ivan calls out, “Will you stand with us?” 

“What is going on?” she demanded, sliding her hand into the pocket of her robes to touch the knife Oscar gave her (her staff is in her room like it usually is; she’s never needed it out here before). 

“The White Spire has fallen,” Maeve said, her light voice in odd contrast to the way those words make her take a step back, “The mages of that circle have risen and beaten back their Templar jailers.” 

“What happened to the First Enchanters?” she asked, her fingers curling around the hilt of her knife (The White Spire, _Maker_ , that wasn’t good. Was this what Andi had been waiting for all along?) 

Ivan waved his hand dismissively, “Those that have survived are gathering,” he said, pointing his staff at her, “The important thing here, is where do _you_ stand.?” 

“What are you trying to do?” she asks, backing up slowly, “Does First Enchanter Marian know—” 

“She will soon,” Franklin replied, also stepping forward, “And she will either fall in line or fall. So what will it be, Trevelyan?” 

“So what, anyone who doesn’t fall in line with you—you’re just going to kill?” she spat out, nudging Cleo into turning toward them, “How does that make you any better than the Templars?” 

“No one has to die,” Maeve replied, spreading her hands out, “Just don’t get in the way, is all we are asking.” 

“Although, we could use your support, Trevelyan,” Ivan said, “Your voice would be extremely beneficial in the times to come.” 

“I bet,” she replied, “But what, you want to overthrow the Templars? And then what? They’ll just send more, or send the Seekers, or—” 

“You argued that last time, Rasleanne, but there are no other solutions,” Maeve interrupted, “It was the Lord Seeker himself who ordered the attack on the mages of the White Spire. There is no room for your diplomacy anymore.” 

“So you say,” she says (the situation has been deterioting for months but if the Lord Seeker is involved—things were worse than she thought). 

She’s not sure what would have happened next (she doesn’t think they would have tried to kill her, since they are Andi’s friends, but disable and attempt to imprison her maybe sure) but at this point a Templar guard runs into the garden and draws his sword. 

“What’s going on here?” he demands, pointing his sword at Ivan. 

“Your time is at an end,” Ivan replied easily, turning toward him, “Stand down or be cut down.” 

“Shut up,” she snaps, stepping forward before the Templar (she thinks it’s Ben, plodding and methodical but reasonable usually) can charge Ivan or Ivan can pull up a spell (make both sides calm down first, and then maybe, just maybe, they’ll listen to reason), “This is ridiculous, you can’t just—” 

Another explosion goes off, and Ben charges, and the three mages start throwing spells, and she holds up her knife and summons up the largest static cage that she can manage and shocks them all into unconsciousness (maybe if she can contain the situation here, it’s not too late to fix things—) 

But when she runs into the main building, she realizes what a wishful thought that was. There are things on fire, mages are lobbing spells back and forth, and her stomach lurches when she notices bodies on the floor (she recognizes them—that looks like one of Marcel’s librarian friends, that’s Ser William, and that’s Senior Enchanter Lydia, and—she can’t look anymore or she’s going to throw up. It also doesn’t bode well if a senior enchanter is down—she needs to find Marcel and Oscar, stat. Also Andi, maybe she can argue with her—it’s doubtful, but she has still known her for so long, surely—surely this can somehow be, if not undone, mitigated?) 

She runs up the stairs and sees mages and Templars fighting, and when one Templar charges her with his sword raised, she instinctively shocks him, and when he moves to smite her, she slashes out with her knife and is horrified when he goes down with a spurt of blood. 

(Maker forgive her, what has she done?) 

She doesn’t have time to stand there in shock because there are other Templars running after her, and so she runs, flinging electricity spells behind her (she doesn’t think they should kill anyone; but then again, Templars wear a lot of metal, but she’s not in her garden, so her options are somewhat limited. What matters is that they hit and stop them from chasing her because if they get their hands on her, she’s dead, either by sword or spell nullification, one way or another). 

“Lea!” 

She turns around to see Oscar knock two Templars into the ground with his staff and then elbow them in the throat for good measure to make them stay down (it looked like no matter his problems with Andi, he knew a lot of her signature moves). He tosses her her iron wrought staff, lifts his hand, and summons up a static cage that fills the stairway and shocks all the Templars and mages following them into unconsciousness. 

“Where’s Marcel?” she asked, running her fingers over the familiar grooves of her staff (this was unreal, this could not be happening—) 

“Library, of course,” Oscar quipped, eyes scanning the corridor for more people, “Do you expect him to be anywhere else?” 

“Is he—” 

“No one knows the library better than Marcel, and quite frankly, no one is about to take it from him,” Oscar said, looking at her, “You okay?” 

“I’m fine,” she said automatically, looking down at her knife and trying to figure out if she could wipe it on something that wasn’t her robe (it didn’t look like it), “Do you know where Andi…?” 

Oscar’s jaw clenched, “No,” he replied, electricity crackling up and down his staff, “I don’t. I hope she’s okay.” 

“Yeah,” she replied softly, “Do you want to go look for her, or…?” 

Oscar looked down the staircase then back at her, “I—” he sighed, and looked down, “Let’s get you to safety first, hm? Whatever differences Andi and me may have—or that even you two have, she’d want you to be safe. That much I do know.” 

She shakes her head, standing up straighter (Maker knows, she is not brave, her hands are still shaking, and she still doesn’t know what to do with her knife, and if it were just her, she’d go hide somewhere safe and dark until it all blew over, but she will not hide if her friends are running around putting themselves at risk. She’ll only stand down when they do). 

“Let’s find her,” she says, touching her staff and letting some of her spells charge up in the gem on the top, “After all, _you_ still have to pay her back for dragging you and Marcel out of trouble so many times.” 

He shook his head, “Andi will never forgive me if anything happens to you—” 

“Then maybe she shouldn’t have kicked off this in the first place,” she snapped, striding toward the door that would lead to the walls (maybe they’ll have a better view from there), “We need to find her before this gets worse. Come on.” 

Oscar looks like he wants to protest, but she’s already out the door and crouching behind the walls while attempting to peer through the holes (she doesn’t see Andi’s tell-tale flaming red curls anywhere). 

“You’re not going to find her like that,” Oscar says tiredly, crouching beside her. 

“Then what do you suggest?” she asks, turning to him. 

Oscar runs a hand over his mouth and quickly shoots down a static cage to contain the fighting in the courtyard (his last longer than hers; hopefully it’ll be enough to contain some of what’s going on). 

“She’ll be trying to get the apprentices out,” he says finally, turning toward the corridor that went to the apprentice quarters. 

She nods and follows after him, robes flapping and sending lightning strikes at anyone Oscar doesn’t manage to take out with a kick to the solar plexus or just a handy shock to the head. They manage to round the corner into the apprentice quarters without too many issues (they only encountered one Templar, and neither of them have any compunction in striking from behind, so they did, and he’s out for the count, and so are all the mages, and hopefully that’s enough), and Andi’s head whips up as she sees them hurtle in, and her green eyes narrow as she steps in front of the gathered apprentices. 

“What do you think you’re doing?” she snaps, pointing her staff at them. 

Oscar chuckles darkly, “Funny, I could ask you the same thing,” he says flippantly, positioning himself straight between Andi’s staff and Rasleanne. 

“I’m getting these kids out of here; if you try to stop me—” 

“I don’t have a problem with that; my problem is that your friend are busy _lighting the entire place on fire and killing people—”_

“We’re only killing the Templars that are evil—” 

“And how can you tell when all of them start fighting? Not much difference between all their helmets—” 

“If they’re fighting to keep us trapped here, obviously they need to be stopped! They can’t just—” 

“Some of them are just following orders—” 

“And isn’t that how we ended up in this mess in the first place?” Andi demanded, jabbing a finger at Oscar, “Isn’t that how Kirkwall happened? Isn’t that how we all ended up here, separated from any semblance of normal life—” 

“It would be normal if you would just—” 

“Just what, Oscar? Just sit there like a good little girl, nodding and smiling and warming your bed? At least I have some kind of _drive_ instead of sitting around aimlessly, pulling pranks while always being in the shadow of—” 

“ _Enough,”_ she said, stepping between the two of them and shoving them away from each other (Andi was about six seconds from throwing hexes around, and from the way Oscar’s jaw was clenching, he was likely to throw up a barrier that would ricochet the spells all over the place, and that was the last thing they needed with a bunch of nervous apprentices around), “Where are you taking the apprentices, Andi?” 

“Why do you care? If you’re going to try and stop me—” 

“Just tell me where you’re taking them,” she repeats, moving her hands in a placating gesture (but she doesn’t let go of her staff because they are in the middle of a riot, and she’s not stupid), “They deserve to know too, don’t they?” 

“I’m taking them somewhere safe, and that’s all you need to know,” Andi replied, crossing her arms and tilting her head stubbornly, “Don’t try to brainwash them, Lea, they can’t stay here—” 

“Why? I thought your friends were busy taking the place over? Unless—you’re worried about when the Chantry sends more Templars, aren’t you? Or the Seekers?” she asks, glancing over at the apprentices, who all seem to flinch at the idea. 

(The Seekers are technically the Templars’ bogeyman, but mages fear them as well. Only the best Templars become Seekers, and they have no love for mages anymore than the army that they watch over.) 

Andi flushes, “It will take time to gain control of the Circle, but for now, _they_ should not be here for it,” she insists. 

“And where can you take them that they will be safe?” she asks, looking at the apprentices (there are _children_ there, and even the oldest looks young to her), “They will be declared apostates—” 

“Better that than being slaves here!” Andi cut in, slamming her staff into the ground for emphasis, “They will be free—” 

“Or will they? It’s true, they’re not safe here, but where are you taking them? You don’t even know what they will face—” 

Andi jumps at her, and she thinks the unthinkable has happened, that she’s finally snapped and decided to attack her (in all their years, Andi has only ever laid a hand on her when training her how to hit hard and fast, never in anger, and for it to come to this—), but then she hears the whoosh and clatter of arrows flying over their heads and landing dangerously close, and Oscar slams his staff into the ground to create a barrier, and she throws a hand out to direct lightning at the balcony the arrows seem to be coming from, and the apprentices have scattered (some of the older ones stay and throw a few fireballs). 

By the time she’s managed to get back on her feet, the last Templar on the balcony has fallen (she hopes they’re not dead, even though she’s not sure if this is salvageable anymore). She winces as she rotates her shoulder. 

“I know your barriers suck Andi, but couldn’t you have done something besides knock me to the ground?” she asks. 

Andi doesn’t answer, and she frowns. 

“Andi?” 

She turns around. The redhead is still on the floor and there is an arrow sticking out of her chest. 

(No, no, no, no, no, _no, no, no, **no** )_

“ _Andi!”_

She’s at the older girl’s side, and Oscar is cradling Andi, and her fingers come away red when she touches where it has pierced Andi and her hands are shaking and Oscar is nearly as pale as Andi and— 

“We—we need to get you to the healers,” she says, grasping on the only idea that is not making her head spin, “They can fix this—they can make this right—you’re going to be okay—” 

Andi coughs, a sick watery noise, “There are none,” she rasps, “They’re scattered—” 

“We’ll find one,” Oscar cuts in, his knuckles turning white as he grasps at Andi’s robe, “We’ll find one, just hold on—please, Andi—” 

Andi shakes her head, her red curls tumbling across Oscar’s arm, “The—fucking Templars know how to aim. The—the arrow hit something important—I can feel it—” 

“No, no, Andi, you’re going to be okay—we just need to find someone,” Oscar insisted, stroking her cheek lightly with his hand, “Come on, I know how tough you are—you can’t give up on me now—how lame would it be if you got killed by some shitty Templar archer, huh?” 

Andi snorted, and she is disturbed how weak she sounded (none of the apprentices that had stayed were spirit healers, and Oscar couldn’t heal worth shit, and she didn’t have any poultices on hand—maybe she can run to the apothecary—but a poultice wasn’t about to help if that arrow had hit any major organs—) 

“Promise me—you’ll take care of them,” Andi manages to say, grasping at Oscar’s neck, “Promise me you’ll—get your sister or someone—to get them somewhere safe—and keep Lea safe—” 

“You’re going to be okay Andi,” Oscar repeated, laying his hand over hers and gripping it tightly, “Hang on, Andi—” 

“ _Promise me,”_ Andi gritted out, her face spasming in pain. 

Oscar closes his eyes, “I promise, I swear to you, Andi, I’ll keep them safe. I’ll keep them all safe.” 

Andi smiled, “Good,” she coughed, blood coming out of her mouth, and her voice getting softer and softer, “Thanks. I have—always…loved…” 

Her voice trailed off, and her green eyes went dull. 

“Andi?” Oscar shook her shoulder, voice shaking, “Andi? Come on, Andi, darling, don’t do this to me, don’t you _dare,_ **_Andi!”_** __

(The last year has been rocky, but Andi has always been there. True, somewhat prickly, never one to show affection openly, and so, so caustic, but when push came to shove, she always knew that Andi has her back. Had her back. This couldn’t be how it was, could it? She couldn’t be _gone,_ could she? Surely she will wake up and see Andi’s surly nod lightened by the small, delicate pastries that inevitably found their way to her plate, walk in on yet another one of Oscar’s and Andi’s arguments that will probably end up with them defiling whatever vaguely flat surface is nearby, get dragged to the training ground by Andi who will mutter about how much better she would be if she would just do regular drills with her—surely that couldn’t be over? Surely she would see her again? She—she can’t just be _dead_ —not like this—no, no no, nono _nonono **nono**_ ) 

Somehow—she’s not sure how, the rest of this day—the rest of this week pretty much is a haze, even when she looks back on it later—they get Andi’s body to the library—she remembers Marcel turning white as a ghost and the entire library _shakes_ as wind gusts around him—and she knows they manage to round up the apprentices because she’s surrounded by them even while tears are running down her cheeks, and Oscar is crackling with barely contained fury, electricity sparking off of him with the slightest movement, and any Templar they meet either wisely chooses to back down or gets shocked into submission—she barely manages to restrain him from killing all the archers on that balcony, screaming at him that killing them won’t bring Andi back (but if it would—she’d stab them herself)—she thinks that maybe at some point she orders Cleo to bite him to get him to stand down—maybe— 

Between Oscar descending like some sort of vengeful god on anyone who stands in their way and her unleashing all the rashvine creepers and other assorted enchanted plants from her greenhouse (if she had done this sooner, maybe Andi would still be alive—), the apprentices are holed up safely in the barricaded library with Marcel, and it is there that they wait for Oscar’s sister to arrive from Markham. 

It is raining when Iluuser knocks on their barricade and walks in. The grey warden looks tired, her braids look hastily done, her boots are scuffed, her cloak is tattered, and her eyes are red. Still, she nods at them and looks at the gathered apprentices (nervous and jittery; they’ve been holed up here about a week; Oscar knows all the secret ways to sneak in food, and thankfully there are lavortories attached to the library, but it’s still been nerve-wracking, with the Templars hacking at the barricade, but thankfully all of Marcel’s various booby traps, her plants, Oscar’s lightning traps, and all of the other apprentice’s various tricks have held) 

“I have talked with the new Knight Commander and the First Enchanter; they have agreed to let me take the apprentices,” she said, her voice hoarse. 

Oscar nodded slowly, “Thank you,” he said quietly. 

(Marcel had cast a preservation spell over Andi’s body, and for the past week, Oscar had only left Andi’s body to fight and reinforce the barricade. Other than that, he would just sit there, holding her cold hand, sometimes weeping, but most of the time just sitting there, staring at her still face. This was the first time in a week she had heard his voice) 

Iluuser lowered her head, “Do not thank me; I…was too late in Markham, and it seems I was too late here as well.” 

“Clarice?” Oscar asked, eyes widening in horror, “She’s not—no—” 

“I’m sorry,” Iluuser said, her voice choked, her head still bowed, “By the time I got there…Clarice was one of the first struck down. It took five of them taking her by surprise to…” 

“Did you find them?” Oscar asked, his voice eerily calm. 

Iluuser looked up as frost spread from her hand to engulf her staff, “There is nothing left of them,” she replied steadily, her eyes suddenly hard. 

Oscar let out a breath, “Good. Did you—Clarice would have wanted her body donated, but that’s—” 

“I cast a preservation spell,” Iluuser said quietly, the frost melting from her staff, “I’ll take her body to Avernus and Alissa; they’ll take whatever is useful, and then I’ll make a funeral pyre worthy of her.” 

“Could you—Andi, she never wants—wanted to be buried here. She always wanted to see—she wanted to see a lot of things, but I said—I said that we would see the Brecellian Woods—and obviously I can’t—show that to her now, but—maybe scatter her ashes—” Oscar broke off, a sob clawing out of his throat, “Oh Maker, _this is all my fault—”_

“No, _no_ , it is _not,”_ Iluuser said fiercely, drawing Oscar into a hug, “It is whoever who killed her, and if I had gotten here sooner, maybe—” 

“Why didn’t I cast a barrier spell sooner?” Oscar asked, clutching Iluuser’s arm, tears streaming down his face, “I was too busy arguing with her—I should have been thinking of her—” 

“No,” she interrupts, both of the Amell siblings looking at her, “It’s my fault. Andi died protecting me, and—I should have put up a barrier—I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, _I’m so sorry—”_

Iluuser draws her into an embrace as well, and she cries and cries into her shoulder (Andi is _gone_ , and Oscar is like a ghost, and Marcel is not much better, and the Circles are falling apart, and what are they going to _do?_ No matter what favors she was still owed, she doesn’t know how much that’s worth now—half the people she’s owed favors for may be _dead_. Was it really just two weeks ago that she had been up here with Marcel, trying to get him to eat while they batted ideas about how to reconcile Andi and Oscar back and forth? Had it really just been a month ago that she had helped Oscar replace the Templars’ shampoo with a concoction that would only start to stink to high heaven after four hours? And three months ago, Andi had been in a better mood, and the two of them had sat on the wall, overlooking the city, and had simply chatted about their students—and that would never happen again.) 

Oscar places a hand on her head, “It’s not your fault Lea; Andi would be happy you’re safe,” he says tiredly, stroking her hair, “I know her—knew her. Even if she could go back and change things—she wouldn’t if it meant you were the one who got shot instead.” 

(She doesn’t ask if he could go back if he would change who would get shot; she doesn’t want to know.) 

“Come with me,” Iluuser said, looking at both of them intently, “Marcel as well. Leave this place; you can even ‘disappear’ before I actually get around to getting all of you to the Joining—” 

“And where would we disappear to, sister?” Oscar asked, a wry, tired smile creeping across his face, “It seems the mage-templar war is in full swing; anywhere we go, we will be a target.” 

“You cannot mean to stay here?” Iluuser asked incredulously, “This place…you can rebuild, but it won’t be the same. You will always catch glimpses of those you lost in the corner of your eye, and when you turn around, they won’t be there.” 

“Some of the apprentices want to stay,” she says quietly, looking over at the group huddled close by, “They’ll need someone to look after them.” 

(And this is true, but it’s also half of an excuse. She has lived in the Circle since she was twelve—she does not know how to be an apostate. Even if she saw ghosts at every corner—this was home, and she would help rebuild it. There was nowhere else to go.) 

“And I promised Andi I would look after Lea,” Oscar said, “So I’m staying.” 

She glares at Oscar, “Oscar, you can go—” 

“No,” he says simply, “I wasn’t able to keep a lot of promises to Andi—let me keep our last one.” 

Iluuser shook her head, “I cannot guarantee your safety,” she warned them, “I have…Grey Warden business that I believe will take me West soon. I will not be able to travel freely.” 

Oscar let out a harsh bark of laughter, “You haven’t exactly been able to guarantee our safety anyway,” he said bitterly, then quickly shook his head when Iluuser’s face lost all expression, “I’m sorry—I didn’t mean that—” 

“But it is true,” Iluuser said quietly, turning her staff around in her hands, “I’m sorry. For everything. And I will not say that it will be an easy life outside the Circle, but are you sure you don’t want to leave?” 

She glances at Oscar who nods at her, “I’m staying; there are the apprentices, and if the war is on—well, maybe we can be somewhere safe? After we rebuild, if other mages come—” 

“Clinging to neutrality after what has happened will be difficult,” Iluuser said, tracing the runes carved into her staff, “Your First Enchanter might like the idea though; I will advise the new Knight Commander to follow your command.” 

Oscar mouth quirked into a smile, “Thank you, sister.” 

“It’s the least I could do,” she said quietly, “And I swear I will visit the Brecellian Forest and scatter Andi’s ashes across it.” 

It takes another week to sort out the details of negotiating with the First Enchanter and the new Knight Commander the terms of dismantling the barricade, which apprentices are leaving, and amnesty in exchange for staying to help rebuild. Having the Warden Commander with them the whole time, idly filling the room with frost at any sign of hostility from the Templars is very helpful, and she is sorry to see her go with most of the apprentices in tow. 

“Keep safe, and watch out for Oscar,” Iluuser whispers in her ear, hugging her goodbye. 

“I will,” she promises, and waves until the group are no more than specks on the horizon. 

The next two years are hard; Oscar regains some of his old vitality, but his eyes are always just a shade distant, and he never takes the two gold rings off. Marcel buries himself in research, and it is harder than ever to get him to eat anything (she can’t look at fancy pastries anymore; every time she sees one, for one second she will think that Andi has snuck her a treat before realizing no, that will never happen again). Still with their efforts, Ostwick’s Circle clings to neutrality, and she is twenty-five when the Divine calls the Conclave and Ostwick’s Circle sends her and Oscar as their representatives to Haven. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Annnnnd we finally will get to Inquisition proper events in the next chapter! Yay!


	11. Amell: Camp

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bit of a breather chapter before everything

The qunari is called Sten, and although he shows no signs of wanting to sew up her mouth or stick her in chains, neither does he seem inclined to answer her questions. Actually, that’s not entirely fair; he answers her questions, just never with the amount of detail she would like. He does tell her that the reason a member of the Beresaad is so far from home is because the Arishok sent him to investigate the Blight. When she asks about the Qun (the library in the tower has only the briefest mention of it, and it’s generally the Chantry-approved description of it as the heretical religion of the Qunari), he says that it is too complicated to talk about, especially in the middle of battle (he has a point). 

They run into darkspawn as they are leaving Lothering, and manage to save a dwarf merchant and his son (they also find out that Amdir has the weird ability to summon wolves with a piercing whistle. He probably should have warned them beforehand because when a giant black wolf showed up in the middle of the battle, she had nearly put an icicle straight through it before Amdir grabbed her arm and explained). The merchant is called Bodhan, and his son’s name is Sandal, and he offers to follow them around and give them a discount on his wares in exchange for protection. 

Morrigan isn’t especially pleased with the idea.

“Are we to take every straggler that comes our way?” she demands, “Shall we be taking a beggar woman next?”

“If the beggar woman can supply us with poultices and armor and weapons, then I would be happy to have her join us,” she replied evenly.

“Although if our aim was to be inconspicuous, I have to say we’re kind of missing the point,” Amdir pointed out, setting down the wood he had gathered, “We’re resembling a traveling circus more every hour.”

“Well, you did say our cover is blown anyhow,” Alistair said, stepping back and looking at the tent he had set up, “Besides, speaking of traveling circuses, how in Maker’s name did you summon a _wolf?”_

Amdir shrugged, snapping flint together to start a fire, “Thing my mom taught me. That whistle calls whatever animal’s in the area; frankly, I was hoping for a bear.”

“A _bear?”_ Alistair asked incredulously, staring at him, “Why are they even following your commands?”

Amdir shrugged again, tapping one of the daggers strapped to his shoulder, “This was my mother’s dagger. She called it the Fang of Fen’harel; supposedly it’s been passed down for awhile, but anyway, I think it has something to do with it.”

“Is it enchanted?” she asked, poking at it. 

Morrigan had also perked up, “Is it an artifact your family has had for some time?”

“They say it was used in the battle to try and save the Dales; obviously that didn’t work out, and honestly, I’m not sure how much I buy that story, but so far, it’s worked,” Amdir said, warming his hands over the fire. 

“It seems a bit heretical for you to be carrying around an artifact named after the Dread Wolf, does it not?” Morrigan asked, raising an eyebrow. 

Amdir turned to her, “It does its job, and it’s not like I’m Dalish,” he pointed out.

“Surely you cannot also be an Andrastian?” Morrigan asked, lip curling a bit in contempt. 

“What, you think all elves believe in the Creators?” Amdir asked with a sardonic glance, “Creators that did nothing while their empire fell apart?”

“So instead you turn your back on history and worship the god of your conquerors instead?” Morrigan demanded.

Amdir held up a finger, “We remember our history,” he said quietly, “The _vhenadal_ is always the center of every Alienage, and we don’t worship the god of our conquerors; we pay homage to the prophet that Shartan allied with and fought beside.”

“And what would the Chantry think of you carrying around a ‘heretical’ object?” Morrigan asked, crossing her arms. 

“The Chantry that calls any mention of Shartan blasphemy?” Amdir commented, his mouth twisting into a slightly bitter smile, “Don’t really care what they think.”

“Finally! Someone with some sense!” Morrigan exclaims, shooting a look at Leliana before walking away to her own makeshift camp.

Leliana let out a small laugh while shaking her head and sitting down across from Amdir, “So you believe in Andraste, but not the Chantry?” she asked.

Amdir didn’t look up from the fire, “There were a lot of Chantry sisters that came through the Alienage; no offense but not interested.”

Leliana shrugged, “I am not here to preach; I was wondering: how do you know so much about Shartan? I have barely heard any tales myself, and I was a minstrel.”

Amdir unbuckled the daggers from his back and began to clean them, “We pass down the story in the alienages,” he said, holding the other dagger up to the fire to examine it.

“Do you have any other stories?” Leliana asked eagerly. 

Amdir looked at her, considered the dagger he was holding, and then with a wry smile, began to tell a story about an elven hero named Enel and his trusty sidekick Galion who went on all sorts of adventures across old ruins, discovering ancient treasure while battling arcane horrors. She covered her mouth as she laughed and stood up, and Amdir winked at her as she left (he had mentioned making up stories for the kids of the alienage before, and she had already heard this one on their trip to Ostagar. Leliana seemed enthralled though, and Alistair also seemed entertained. It was hard to read Sten’s expression, but he seemed to be listening to Amdir’s story as well. Barkspawn was happily slumped over on Amdir’s feet, so she guessed he was happy where he was)

She drew closer to Morrigan’s fire, and the golden-eyed mage looked up as she approached. 

“Have you tired of self-righteous blabbering?” Morrigan asked archly, moving a bit to let her draw closer to the fire. 

“I thought I might keep you company,” she replied with a smile, letting the fire warm her hands. 

Morrigan snorted, “You mistake me for Alistair,” she said caustically, “I’m surprised he is not dogging your footsteps right now, or perhaps he fears that I will swoop down and turn him into a toad if he dared?”

“‘Swooping is bad,’” she quoted with mock-seriousness, then giggled at the disgusted expression on Morrigan’s face, “But really, why put your camp so far away? If you’re worried about the smell, I can cast a few more cleaning spells on Barkspawn—”

“Better for you to try casting them on Alistair instead,” Morrigan cut in with a wave of her hand, “Not that I believe it will help. No, I need no company. I have grown used to resting by myself in my explorations of the Wilds, and I see no need to change that.”

“You explored the Wilds?” she asked eagerly, “So you grew up there your whole life? What was it like?”

Morrigan frowned, “Why do you ask me such questions? I do not probe you for pointless information, do I?”

She laughed, “I’ve been shut up in a tower in the middle of a lake for most of my life; I’m curious. And if you wish to ask me questions, please go ahead.”

“Given your love for baths, I believe you would hate the Wilds,” Morrigan muttered, “But anyway, to answer your question, yes, I grew up in the Wilds; I ran with the wolves and flew with the birds and talked to the trees.”

“Sounds idyllic. But it was just you and your mother?” she asked, frowning. 

(As much as she had wished for her long-forgotten family, there were always other mages in Kinloch Hold. She grew up whispering stories and secrets in the dark of the apprentice quarters to Alissa and Elaine and rolling her eyes at Anders’ antics and trading notes with Jowan—anyway, even if she wanted to explore the Wilds again someday, she can’t imagine growing up there with only one companion)

Morrigan shrugged, “Sometimes Templars would wander in; Mother would look at me, and smile and say that the fun was to begin once more.”

She blinked, “Fun?” she asked carefully, “You were bait?”

Morrigan nodded, “What better than a little girl to scream and run and lure the Templars deeper into the Wilds and their doom?”

“And then when you had lured them far enough, Flemeth would somehow kill them all?” she asked, rubbing her arms. 

(The more she learned about Morrigan’s mother, the more uneasy she becomes. She’s still not sure how Flemeth managed to save them all at Ostagar, and one mage managing to beat back a group of Templars multiple times was a feat few could accomplish. Oh it was true, Flemeth had the home ground advantage but…that name. It was worrying. And using a little girl as bait? That was something out of the dark horror serials she used to sneak with Alissa)

“Indeed, although sometimes a darker fate awaited them. But eventually they would totter off the mortal coil,” Morrigan answered, waving her hand to make the fire burn hotter.

“And do you still think that game was…fun?” she asked, picking her words with care.

Morrigan shrugged again, “If the Wilds have taught me anything ‘tis this: first you must survive. Do you disagree?”

“To some extent I agree with you,” she replied, tilting her head, “But there are some fates worse than death.”

Morrigan scoffed, “Surely you do not believe everything the Chantry tells you?”

“No, but I do believe that death is preferable to becoming an abomination,” she stated, looking Morrigan in the eye, “I do not wish to be a flesh puppet of anything.”

“No, ‘tis true,” Morrigan said quietly, frowning into the fire, “That would be…a most unpleasant fate.”

She smiled at Morrigan, “Let’s talk about more cheerful topics: tell me about your shapeshifting abilities! Can you shapeshift into anything?”

“Perhaps later; you apparently need to take the dumbest member of our party for a walk,” Morrigan replied, nodding at Alistair who had approached them and was hanging around about ten steps away from the fire. 

She laughed, shaking her head, “Perhaps we shall talk about it tomorrow?” she asked hopefully.

Morrigan gave her a considering look, then dipped her head in acknowledgement. 

She grinned and waved her goodbyes as she walked toward Alistair. 

“Surely Barkspawn isn’t hungry again?” she asked him. 

Alistair chuckled, “Thankfully no; although between you, me, and Amdir, not to mention that qunari, we’re going to be needing a lot of food as it is. I was just making sure she hadn’t turned you into a frog or something.”

She raised an eyebrow, “Don’t worry, we’re definitely more useful without being small, slimy, and green. Did Amdir get to the part about cursed rings yet?”

“He said he’d save it for next time since it’s been a long day,” Alistair replied as they walked back to the central fire, “I’ve got a question for you though: who’s Fen’harel?”

“Shouldn’t you ask Amdir that?” she asked, looking at him.

“Well, Morrigan would have been insufferable if I had asked earlier, and then Amdir was busy telling his story, and now he’s sleeping, so now I’m asking you,” he said easily, grinning at her. 

She smiled back at him (he really was a bit like a puppy in some ways, and Maker knew she couldn’t resist puppies), “Fen’harel, also known as the Dread Wolf, is the trickster god of the elven Creators,” she recited from memory as they approached the tents, “The Dalish say that he betrayed the other gods and sealed them away, and they seek to protect their clans from him.”

“Hm. Weird that Amdir’s dagger is named that then,” he commented as she quizzically stared at her tent that had somehow managed to assemble itself. 

“Did someone set up all the tents…?” she asked, turning to him.

Alistair rubbed the back of his head, “Well, I set up your tent for you—you seemed busy talking with Morrigan, and someone needs to make sure she doesn’t decide to kill us all in her sleep, and it’s not that hard to set up, and Amdir mentioned you had some trouble with it, and—is that okay?”

She smiled warmly at him (she shouldn’t, this is getting…less than professional, and she’s not…free, not exactly, and even if she were—she’s a mage, and she knows not to hope for much, but it was a sweet gesture nonetheless), “Thank you, Alistair.”

He flushed and coughed, “You’re welcome—although you shouldn’t be so quick to thank me just yet. You’ve got first watch.”

She raised an eyebrow, “I suppose that’s better than the watch at the middle of the night; although, when was this decided?”

“Well you were huddled with Morrigan, and we weren’t sure she wouldn’t let the darkspawn come eat us simply out of spite, so by majority vote, you got the first watch,” he replied, grinning at her, “Lucky you.”

“I shall endeavor to keep vigilant through the dark night and keep us all safe and sound,” she said dryly, bending down as Barkspawn padded over, “And who should I wake up for the next shift?”

“Me, actually, I lost at rock-paper-scissors,” Alistair said with a rueful smile.

She nodded and smiled at him, “Well then, for now, good night, Alistair.”

“Good night, Iluuser,” he replied, inclining his head and waving as he walked to his tent.

She sat down by the fire while Barkspawn whined sadly as she tossed some sticks into the fire to keep it going.

“Aren’t you tired?” she asked, looking at the mabari. 

He woofed quietly, took a stick from her hand gently, and drooled over it while curling up at her feet. He rolled over, and she scratched his stomach lightly, and Barkspawn’s tail started thumping the ground so loudly that she nearly missed hearing Sten’s footsteps until he was right in front of them. 

She looked up at the qunari (Maker’s breath, he was tall), “Not going to sleep? Oh wait, did Amdir manage to get a tent big enough for you?”

“Your story-telling friend managed somehow,” Sten replied, looking down at her, “I have a question for you, grey warden.”

She waved a hand in front of her, “Go ahead.”

Sten let out an annoyed breath, “I don’t understand; you look like a woman.”

Her eyebrows shot up, “…yes? What’s not to understand about that?”

“You are a grey warden, so it follows that you can’t be a woman,” Sten stated firmly.

“…I am fairly certain there have been female grey wardens,” she said, puzzled.

Sten shook his head, “Women are priests, artisans, farmers, or shopkeepers; they don’t fight,” he argued.

She smiled slightly, touching the staff at her side and thinking of Enchanter Curtis who probably would have seen a rampaging qunari horde as an advanced training exercise at the most, “Some do.”

Sten frowned, “Why would women ever wish to be men? That makes no sense.”

She held up a hand, “I think I’m misunderstanding something here; women under the Qun, they do not fight?”

Sten shook his head, “They do not.”

She tilted her head (she knew that the Qun assigned certain roles to certain people, but it seemed odd to ban half the population from fighting, especially when some of them might be really good at it), “I see. But I am not part of the Qun?”

“A person is born: qunari or human or elven or dwarf; he does not choose that. The size of his hands, whether he is clever or foolish, the land he comes from, the color of his hair, these are beyond his control. We do not choose, we simply are,” Sten explained.

“But we can choose what we do,” she pointed out.

“Can we?” Sten asked doubtfully, “We’ll see.”

She sighed (he was part of the Beresaad, and she was fairly certain that a member of that elite force would be loath to give up any of their beliefs. They may just have to accept a few odd quirks here and there, barring attempting to stitch up her mouth for being a mage), “We’re going in circles here, I think.”

Sten nodded, “I don’t know what to make of you or some of your companions. Perhaps this is a quality of Grey Wardens I had not heard about,” he mused.

She nodded back at him, “Sure, let’s go with that. Have you eaten? Amdir brought back some supplies, but if you haven’t eaten in nearly a month—”

“The food provided to me was sufficient,” Sten cut in, his face impassive. 

She frowned, scratching Barkspawn behind his ears, “If you are sure; but please, do let us know if you need more food. We don’t want you falling unconscious in the middle of a battle; I’m not sure any of us can lift you up.”

Sten nodded solemnly in acknowledgement and turned and left. The rest of her watch was relatively peaceful, the only noise the chirp of crickets and Barkspawn’s low woofs and snores and the thump of his tail. When the fire had nearly burned down, she walked over to Alistair’s tent and tapped on the worn canvas. After a bit of scuffling and Barkspawn barking a few times, Alistair’s head poked out of the tent, his hair ruffled and standing on end. 

He yawned and dug the heel of his hand into the side of his face, “Oh, hello, already? Alright…oh, I get Barkspawn too? Well, that’s nice… ”

She yawned and waved him off, walking into her tent and burying her face in her bedroll. It had been a really long day, and by now she’d happily fall asleep on top of a log. 

Unfortunately, her dreams are filled with whispers and an enormous blighted dragon that growls and snaps and suddenly _looks_ at her. She wakes up with a gasp, thrashing out of her bedroll. It looks like the sun has barely peaked over the horizon, but she doubts she’ll be able to fall asleep again, so she quickly braids her hair, straightens her robes, and gets out of the tent. Alistair and Amdir are already outside, with Barkspawn trotting around them, and they look up as Barkspawn barks happily when she approaches them.

“Bad dreams, huh?” Alistair asked sympathetically as she sat down, rubbing her hands together. 

She frowns, glancing at both of them. Neither look like they’ve slept especially well, dark circles under both of their eyes in stark contrast to their Ferelden skin. “Both of you as well?” she asked. 

“The archdemon, it ‘talks’ to the horde, and we feel it just as they do. That's why we know this is really a Blight,” Alistair explained, rubbing a hand over his mouth. 

She shivers, remembering the dragon’s baleful glance (the old gods of Tevinter had all been dragons…so that was an archdemon), “And this is going to happen every night?”

Alistair shrugged, “Depends. Some wardens seemed to sleep through every night more or less the same, but some—well, sleeping was difficult for them.”

Amdir let out a breath, “I guess we better hope sheer exhaustion keeps most of the nightmares away.”

Alistair nodded, “Anyway, I thought I should tell you guys. It was scary for me, too.”

(The Wardens seem to keep a lot of secrets; she wonders if Alistair even knows them all, given that he joined only a few months before. It’s not an especially comforting thought, so she pushes it aside. They’ll deal with it if it comes up, otherwise, they have a Blight to end)

“Thanks, Alistair,” she said, snapping her fingers together to create a spark of lightning to light a fire so she could boil some water. 

“Anytime,” he replies with a grin, getting up to refill the pot they had scrounged up with water. 

The next few days go more or less smoothly. Morrigan and Alistair still snipe at each other, but Amdir and her run interference, with her diverting Morrigan with questions about shapeshifting, and Amdir telling Alistair stories about the shenanigans that he and his cousins got tangled in. Leliana proves to actually be a very pleasant companion, happily telling stories when prompted and occasionally singing (usually hymns, which makes Morrigan complain, but they’re becoming used to fact that Morrigan was most likely just going to complain, and anyway, Leliana has a very pretty voice. She must have made a fortune as a minstrel). She’s also an extremely good shot with a bow, and they manage to get some rabbits to eat every night thanks to her efforts. (Amdir helps her cook them; Alistair held up his hands at the very beginning and seriously told them that unless they wanted to vomit, no one should ever let him cook. Morrigan sniffed disdainfully, Leliana admitted that cooking was not one of her skills, and Sten simply stared at them.)

Bodhan and Sandal trundle behind them during the day and provide supplies when they need them. Bodhan is perfectly happy to chat about life as a surfacer dwarf, and Sandal is a sweet-tempered boy, and even Morrigan has to admit he’s useful after he enchants one of Amdir’s many knives with a flame rune. (She’s never seen that kind of magic; the Tranquil in the Tower do something similar, but not with the kind of skill Sandal has. Amdir’s dagger’s surface seems to ripple with fire when he draws it, and the enchantment doesn’t seem to wear off no matter how many times he strikes with it. It’s unusual, not only because Sandal is a dwarf, but she’s glad he’s with them) Barkspawn loves running around their cart and pouncing on Sandal, who laughs loudly with great delight. 

Sten doesn’t say much, trudging tirelessly on and simply wiping the great broadsword they had scavenged from one of the bandits at the bridge on the grass and resheathing it after every battle. She thought she caught a flicker of expression when they had passed through a small village and Amdir had managed to somehow procure some smoked ham, cheese, bread, and some cookies, but honestly she’s not sure if she had just imagined it. There are a few battles (darkspawn keep popping up), but nothing the seven of them can’t handle. She almost thinks that their task will be about as straightforward as their journey, until they arrive at Lake Calenhad to find a Templar at the ferry instead of Kester. 


	12. Trevelyan: Conclave

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, finally got to actual Inquisition events

She wakes up in a dungeon cell, with her left hand feeling as though someone has stabbed it through, a faded dream of being chased by spiders, and no memory of how she got here. She winces, trying to rub her head although her hands are in shackles. How did she get here? The last thing she remembers, she was at the Conclave— 

At the Conclave with Oscar. Who isn’t here in this cell with her. 

She turns around to see if she can see into another cell, but he’s not there either. 

Okay, she can’t panic; he could easily be somewhere else or even have escaped from—whatever this place is. (It wouldn’t be like Oscar though, to run away on his own and leave her here—) What else does she remember? There were…a lot of mages, a lot of Templars— 

There had been her second eldest brother, Lachlan. She hadn’t seen him since she had been taken to the Circle, but even in Templar armor, he bore too close of a resemblance to their father for her to not notice him. She wasn’t sure if he would recognize her though; not only was she no longer the small girl that had chased him through the family gardens, but her long black tresses, the hair that her mother had long ago instructed her to tend to carefully because that was a noblewoman’s crowning glory, had been shorn to a short boyish cut. 

(It had been partially because in the aftermath of the rebellion, long hair was an inconvenience. There was so much work to do, so many people to cajole and bargain with, so many things to repair, that there was barely any time to brush her hair, let alone carefully tend to it. And also—it had been a mark of grief. She used to help Andi brush her long flaming curls, and Andi had used to return the favor and lend her hair products. The first time she had washed her hair after the rebellion, she had dried her hair as much as she could with a towel and turned around, half expecting a brush to be tossed her way, but there was nothing and no one there. 

Iluuser hadn’t been wrong when she said she would always see ghosts in the Tower; every flash of red hair has her turning around, expecting to see Andi walking by. She goes to the greenhouse, expecting to see Enchanter Lydia before she remembers that she is gone as well. She still knocks before entering any room with Oscar, even though it is no longer necessary since—well, it must be worse for Oscar. 

No matter how many candles they light or stories they tell or think that now Andi is at the Maker’s side, it doesn’t change the fact that she is no longer here with them, and she never will be again. Oscar rarely did pranks anymore, halfheartedly enchanting some mud to rise up and hit random people and dirty novels to flutter around people, but nothing grander than that. His remaining apprentice minions tried to pick up his slack, but even they were subdued with their mentor wandering around like a ghost. He provided the firepower to back up their stance of neutrality, bringing lightning strikes and static cages with a power that proved that among the Amell siblings, all he had ever lacked was motivation, but outside of that, he didn’t do much. She caught him staring out of windows often, and Marcel said he tended to wander the Tower at night. Sometimes he smiled, but it was a wisp of his old cat-like grin. And what she missed most was his laugh, that wild sound full of glee and joy; it seemed to have vanished with Andi) 

Still, Lachlan had turned to stare at her (maybe someone had pointed her out? No matter where she goes, she is still a Trevelyan), and after a few moments, she had tentatively waved at him. He had abruptly turned around and had not deigned to look at her again. Then— 

Nothing. She remembers nothing. She winces as the pain in her hand flares and looks down. Her hand is glowing a sickly green. She starts and stares at it some more (maybe it’s just a trick of the light—), but as the pain rises, so does the weird glow on her hand. What is going on? 

The door slams open, and a tall dark haired woman in dark armor with a sword strapped to her side strides in, followed by a shorter red-haired woman wearing a purple hood. 

The dark haired woman leans down and demands, “Tell me why we shouldn’t kill you now,” she hisses, “The Conclave is destroyed. Everyone who attended is dead. Except for you.” 

( _Dead?)_

“Everyone?” she asks, trying to stand up and settling back down when a guard jabbed at her threateningly with a sword, “You are sure—what happened? _Everyone?_ ” 

(Not Oscar, please dear Maker, not Oscar, she had promised—she had promised to keep him _safe,_ she had _promised_ ) 

“Everyone,” the woman repeated, grabbing her left hand, “Explain _this.”_

“I—I can’t,” she says, wincing as the green light flares from her hand again, “No one—everyone inside? Surely someone—a mage? Another mage didn’t make it out?” 

(Surely if anyone could, it would be Oscar. Oscar had always gotten out of slippery situations—this couldn’t be how it ended for him. Not if she was alive. He must have been at her side—and if she had survived whatever had happened, surely he had as well—) 

“No,” the woman replied, dropping her hand, “What do you mean you _can’t?”_

“I don’t what that _is_ —or even how it got there,” she protests, “Please—” 

“You’re lying!” the woman yells, grabbing her by the shoulders and shaking her. 

The red haired woman grabs the dark haired woman’s arm and pulls her away, “We _need_ her, Cassandra,” she whispers urgently. 

(She doesn’t know who they are or what they need her for, but she needs to get out of here and find Oscar. He could be injured—maybe they just haven’t noticed him yet. He was very sneaky sometimes) 

The red haired woman turned to her, “Do you remember what happened? How this began?” the red haired woman asked. 

She racks her memory (why are there parts missing? She can’t remember anything after seeing Lachlan turn away. It’s like suddenly, there’s nothing—except for that weird dream. Spiders, a hill of some sort, and a figure reaching out her hand—was that what they wanted to hear? She still doesn’t know what’s going on. All these people dead, and her alive: she knows it looks bad, especially given what the apostate Anders did in Kirkwall. Had someone gotten ahold of the qunari blackpowder? She had thought they kept that stuff carefully under lock and key—still, she needs to give her captors something or else she may not be able to get out of here alive at all) 

“I remember running. _Things_ were chasing me, and then—a woman?” she says vaguely. 

(Is that enough? She wishes Oscar was here; he could charm nearly anyone) 

“A woman?” the red haired woman asked, crossing her arms. 

She nods, “She reached out to me, but then…” 

The woman called Cassandra gestured at the red haired woman, “Go to the forward camp, Leliana; I will take her to the rift.” 

(Leliana? _The_ Leliana? One of the heroes of the Fifth Blight? She did have red hair—but she was a bard. And if the rumors were true, the Left Hand of the Divine. Neither of those things would have any qualms about slitting her throat at the slightest sign of trouble; this was a problem. On the other hand, she didn’t feel the empty queasy feeling of having been dosed with magebane, and they had left her with this Cassandra. If she saw a chance, she was taking it and running. She has to find Oscar; she has a promise to keep.) 

As Cassandra leans down to unshackle her legs, she notices the white eye emblazoned upon her armor. A Seeker of the Truth. No wonder they hadn’t dosed her with magebane; they didn’t even need to with one of those running around. A Seeker named Cassandra who spoke with a Nevarran accent—the Right Hand of the Divine, Hero of Orlais, Cassandra Pentaghast. A woman who had slain five dragons at once singlehandedly would be difficult to get away from—but she needs to, and so she will. She has to. 

“What _did_ happen?” she asks as she stands up. 

Cassandra shakes her head, “It—will be easier to show you.” 

She leads her out the dungeon, up the stairs, and out of the chantry building where she was being held. Haven is just as cold as when she arrived (no wonder Fereldens wore so much fur; there was snow everywhere and the persistent smell of wet dog), but as she looks up into the sky, she sees a swirling green maelstrom rending it. Unnatural light shines from it, and it looks almost as if the sky has been ripped, and a wound is festering there. 

“We call it ‘The Breach,’” Cassandra said, tightening her grip on her shoulder, “It’s a massive rift into the world of demons that grows larger with each passing hour. It’s not the only such rift, just the largest. All were caused by the explosion at the Conclave.” 

“An explosion can do that?” she asked, staring at the rift in the sky. 

(It doesn’t seem possible; qunari blackpowder couldn’t do that. The explosion in Kirkwall didn’t do that. She doesn’t know of anything that would rip a hole in the sky—and straight into the Fade, Maker’s breath that was bad. And anything that could do that, could even Oscar have escaped that— 

But he must have. He must. Anything else is unthinkable.) 

“This one did,” Cassandra replied, “Unless we act, the Breach may grow until it swallows the world.” 

The Breach flashes with light, and suddenly her hand spasms with pain, and it’s like something is trying to rip its way out her palm and has spread acid in its wake, and she screams and drops to her knees. 

(If this is going to keep happening, it’s going to throw a bit of a wrench in her escape plans. It feels like it’s _gnawing_ and _growing_ , and she really doesn’t like the sound of that) 

Cassandra kneels down at her side and purses her lips in concern, “Each time the Breach expands, your mark spreads…and it is killing you. It may be the key to stopping this, but there isn’t much time.” 

She sighs and looks at the sickly green glow consuming her hand, “Do I have a choice?” she asks dryly, looking at Cassandra. (Maybe she can find Oscar, and then figure out how to use the thing on her hand to stop the Breach. Although, Maker knows, that was a long shot. Why did the Seeker even think the Mark had a chance of closing the Breach?) 

Cassandra narrows her eyes and pulls her back up and shoves her ahead. 

They pass people who are huddled together in tents and in groups, and as they see her pass, some of them glare, and some of them spit on the ground. (Well, she’s certainly made an impression) 

Cassandra, surprisingly, frowns in disapproval at them, “They have decided your guilt. They need it,” she says quietly, “The people of Haven mourn our Most Holy, Divine Justinia. The Conclave is—was hers. It was a chance for _peace_ between mages and Templars. She brought their leaders together. Now, they are dead.” 

(She hadn’t entirely believed that the Conclave would work. Oh, indeed, she had kept Ostwick’s Circle neutral, but she had fought tooth and nail for that. So many cajoling letters, so many favors called in, so much blackmail used, and that was just to keep the peace within the Circle. Outsiders seeking refuge either agreed to not fight or were turned out at the second infraction. Mages or Templars seeking revenge were both dealt with by Oscar, who only had to step into a room to make everyone’s hair literally stand on end from the sheer amount of electricity he had summoned. None of it had been easy, and she had stared at the First Enchanter dubiously when she had ordered her and Oscar to go. How much good would a sit-down talk accomplish after so much blood had already been shed? But she did admit that it was impressive that the Divine had even managed to get both sides to agree to meet and talk, so they had gone. 

She shouldn’t have agreed—they should have stayed in Ostwick. She needs to find him, and after they figure out how to close the Breach or at least stop it from growing, they need to get out as fast as possible.) 

Cassandra orders the guards to pull gate open and comments, almost as if to herself, “We lash out like the sky, but we must think beyond ourselves. As she did. Until the breach is sealed.” 

Cassandra draws out a knife, and she tenses. Seeker or not, the woman is wearing a lot of metal, and she is already brewing lightning in her right hand—but instead the Seeker simply reaches forward and cuts the bonds on her hands, “There will be a trial. I can promise no more,” the Seeker says seriously, “Come, it is not far.” 

“Where are you taking me?” she asks, rubbing her wrists (the green glow from her hand does not abate, and it’s—a problem to be solved after she finds Oscar. Maybe he’ll even crack a joke about how they’ll never need to light a lamp again with her around) 

“Your mark must be tested on something smaller than the breach,” Cassandra replies, leading her through the snow covered valley. Carts, ruined buildings, and other random shrubbery are all on fire, there are dead bodies lying on the ground, and green comets keep falling out of the sky. If someone had told her that she had managed to walk into hell, she would be inclined to believe them at this point. The Breach flares with light again, and she screams as the pain seems to _chew_ away at her hand, and she falls into the snow, lying on the ground, curled up, and trying to simply _breath_ through the pain. 

(What is this thing?) 

Cassandra picks her up with a surprising amount of gentleness, “The pulses are coming faster now. The larger the Breach grows, the more rifts appear, the more demons we face.” 

She sighs, rubbing the palm of her hand (it doesn’t help), “How did I survive the blast?” she asks. 

“They said you…stepped out of a rift, then fell unconscious,” Cassandra says carefully, “They say a woman was in the rift behind you. No one knows who she was.” 

(This woman again. Why couldn’t she remember what had happened? And she stepped out of a _rift?_ Where was Oscar then? Had he been with her? But they hadn’t said anything about a man—perhaps they had gotten separated—and he had gotten out before the explosion. 

He must have.) 

They walk barely ten steps before one of the green orbs falls from the sky and takes out the bridge they are on. The stones crumble beneath them, and she barely manages to catch her fall onto the frozen river, letting loose a quick fire spell to melt some of the ice beneath her to make her landing a bit softer (it doesn’t help that much). 

Maybe this is her chance to escape— 

Except now demons are rising all around them, shades hissing and clawing at the air. 

(She knows that these are the things that haunt a mage’s nightmares, but she is simply grateful that none of them have Andi’s face or hair the way her dreams often are these days) 

Cassandra draws her sword and shoves her back, “Stay behind me!” she yells as she charges toward the demons. 

Easy enough, except a demon appears right in front of her. She blasts it with lightning and looks around frantically. Anything would do—a knife, something metal, even a stick will do in a pinch—but there’s a mage’s staff lying in the ruined crates. She has no idea what it’s doing there (mages aren’t in the habit of abandoning their staffs), but there’s no time to question timely gifts, so she grabs the staff and unleashes a wall of ice that distracts the demon long enough for her to bring forth a static cage and shock it to oblivion. 

No more demons seem to be appearing, and Cassandra seems to have gutted her opponents (she has never seen a Seeker in action before, and she has to say, the rumors do her no justice; the Right Hand of the Divine moves faster than she thinks possible and tears apart the demons as though they were made of tissue paper), so she lowers her staff. 

“It’s over,” she calls out. 

Cassandra whirls around and points her sword at her, “Drop you weapon. _Now,”_ she orders, narrowing her eyes. 

She sighs (why did she call out? She should have run away while she had the chance—but the Seeker could easily run her down, especially if the Breach happened to flare again. And it’s true, if they don’t figure out how to close the Breach, Oscar and Marcel and everyone else are as good as dead. Although she isn’t sure what the woman is thinking; she doesn’t necessarily need a staff to do damage. It helps direct it, but against one opponent? Even a Seeker would find it somewhat difficult) “Fine,” she agrees, setting it down. 

Cassandra sighs and holds up a hand, “No, wait. You’re right. I cannot protect you, and I cannot expect you to be defenseless.” 

She raises an eyebrow as the woman turns away. This Seeker was much more reasonable than she expected. 

Cassandra turned around and said slowly, “I should remember you agreed to come willingly.” 

Cassandra hands her some potions, and they run into more demons on the way, but these are easily dispatched with a few bolts of lightning and Cassandra basically being a one-woman siege weapon (she is completely certain that the Seeker would be find on her own). 

They manage to climb over a small hill (Ostwick rarely snows; she is not used to running through hills of it, not to mention the fact that her shoes and robes were created with Free Marches weather in mind, not Ferelden), and she sees the smaller tear in the sky, with an odd cluster of acid green crystals surrounding it. Demons keep crawling out through it, and Cassandra’s soldiers are frantically trying to fight them off, along with a bald elf mage and a dwarf wielding some kind of crossbow. Cassandra hurtles into the fray, and she lets out a breath and lifts her staff again to summon down lightning and barrier spells (she wishes she had a couple of her seed packets; it’d be less effort to throw those, and she’s going to run low on mana at this rate). Still, between all their efforts, they manage to defeat all the demons in the small valley, and she steps closer to the rift to take a look. Her left hand itches and glows brighter the closer she gets to it. 

“Quickly before more come through!” the elf yells, grabs her wrist, and thrusts it at the glowing green breach. Green light comes pouring out of her hand toward the center of the gemlike cluster (and it doesn’t hurt exactly, but it feels weirdly uncomfortable, like something foreign has taken over her hand and abilities and directed it at something that _pulls_ ), and suddenly the gem blasts apart, and in a poof of light, the tear in the sky is gone. 

She stares at the peaceful looking patch of sky the rift had been hanging in and then at the elf, “What did you _do_?” 

“ _I_ did nothing; the credit is yours,” the elf said with a small smile. 

She glanced at her hand (it had gone back to the small glow in the center of her palm, and it is still sore but at least it wasn’t the knife-like pain of before), “ _I_ closed that thing? How?” 

“Whatever magic opened that breach in the sky also placed that mark upon your hand,” the elf explained, putting his hands behind his back (maybe it was just because she was so far from home, but she thinks he’s a bit like Marcel), “I theorized that the mark might be able to close the rifts that have opened in the Breach’s wake—And it seems I was correct.” 

“Meaning it could also close the Breach itself,” Cassandra commented, sliding her sword back into its sheath. 

“Possibly. It seems you hold the key to our salvation,” the elf says lightly, nodding at her. 

The dwarf snorted and brushed some snow off of his sleeve, “Good to know; here I thought we’d be ass-deep in demons forever.” 

He bows slightly, “Varric Tethras: rogue, storyteller, and occasionally unwelcome tagalong,” he says, winking at Cassandra, and the Seeker makes a disgusted face 

“Varric Tethras?” she asked, staring at the dwarf, “ _The_ Varric Tethras? Author of _Hard in Hightown_ and _The Tale of the Champion?”_

Varric’s face breaks into a pleased smile, “Ah, you’ve heard of me then. Happy to sign copies when we’re done fighting off the hoard of demons.” 

(What mage hasn’t? Technically _The Tale of the Champion_ was contraband, but when it came to books, no one could stop Marcel from obtaining what he wanted and secreting it in caches all over the Tower. And if it hadn’t been Marcel, it would have been Oscar, who had shown the first real smile she had seen in ages reading about his cousin’s exploits. Andi would have loved the book as well.) 

“Absolutely not,” Cassandra broke in, “Your help is appreciated Varric, but—” 

“Have you been in the valley lately Seeker?” Varric demanded, “Your soldiers aren’t in control anymore. You need me.” 

Cassandra makes the most disgusted noise known to mankind but seems to agree, or at least, does not protest anymore. 

“My name is Solas, if there are to be introductions,” the elf says with a small nod, “I am pleased to see you still live.” 

Varric lets out a short laugh, “He means, ‘I kept that mark from killing you while you slept.’” 

She looks at her hand again (had she come so close to dying? She supposes she must have; look at what the explosion did to the sky, but—it’s hard for her to believe that the crowds of people she saw at the Conclave are no more, and—Andraste preserve her, Lachlan. Lachlan had been there. And if they said there were no survivors—but, she can’t deal with that now. Find Oscar, seal the breach, or the other way around, but that’s all she can focus on right now. Not the brother she hasn’t seen in years) 

She manages to pull a polite smile onto her face and nod at Solas, “Thank you—you seem to know a great deal about it all?” 

Solas smiles slightly, “Thank me if we manage to close the Breach without killing you in the process. My travels have allowed me to learn much of the Fade, far beyond the experience of any Circle mage. I came to offer whatever help I can give with the Breach. If it is not closed, we are all doomed, regardless of origin.” 

She raises her eyebrows (he seems very sensible, but that was still a risky move for an apostate), “That’s a commendable attitude” 

“Merely a sensible one, although sense appears to be in short supply right now,” he says with the slightest roll of his eyes. 

He turns toward the Seeker, “Cassandra, you should know: the magic involved here is unlike any I have seen. Your prisoner is a mage, but I find it difficult to imagine _any_ mage having such power.” 

“Understood,” Cassandra replied with a nod, “We must get to the forward camp quickly.” 

She blinks. That was a quick turn-around, given how earnestly Cassandra had seemed to believe she had something to do with the Breach earlier. She must trust Solas a lot to have changed her mind so quickly—or she simply didn’t have the time to argue with him right now. Either ways, she was grateful that he had said it (but she would still like to know _how_ the blasted thing had attached itself to her) 

“Well….Bianca’s excited!” Varric said with a shrug as they trudged down the hill together. 

After dispatching more demons (it was strange; usually by now she would have needed to replenish her mana, but even though she’s tired, she can still feel a steady stream of magic in her veins), Varric turned to her and asked, “So, _are_ you innocent?” 

“Yes—but I don’t remember what happened,” she replied, using her staff to knock away snow in front of her so at least she could walk straight. 

Varric laughed, “That’ll get you every time. Should have spun a story.” 

“That’s what _you_ would have done,” Cassandra muttered. 

“It’s more believable,” Varric insisted, “And less prone to result in premature execution. So, you’re a fellow Free Marcher.” 

She smiled and nodded, “Did the accent give it away?” 

“Yep, let me guess—Ostwick? Or Markham?” Varric asked. 

“Ostwick,” she replied, stepping over a patch of slippery ice, “Did you make the voyage from Kirkwall?” 

“Indeed I did, along with the illustrious Seeker and Knight—I mean, Commander,” Varric replied, glancing at Cassandra, “Could have been worse, I guess. Last time we took a boat to Orlais, Hawke fell into the ocean. And she can’t swim.” 

“What happened?” she asked, wide-eyed. 

Varric chuckled, “Fenris jumped in to get her, but see, he’s still wearing his spiky armor right? So he pretty much sinks like a rock. So then Rivaini has to try and fish them out. But then, Hawke’s flailing attracted sea serpents.” 

He proceeds to relay the rest of the tale as they fight their way to the forward camp, telling about how Hawke had somehow managed to light a sea serpent on fire, except then the boat had nearly burned, then Isabela had to (“Well, I say had to, but she had a certain gleam in her eye”) take over the ship, and a bedraggled and water-logged Fenris had managed to get off enough of his armor to swim over to Hawke and haul her out of the water (“Very romantic”). 

By the time they climb the stairs and open the doors to the forward camp, she thinks that it’s a shame Oscar hasn’t met his cousin yet. Or maybe a blessing in disguise. It sounds like Hawke was enough trouble on her own, much less with Oscar in tow (although these days—but he would still like meeting her, wouldn’t he?) 

As they approach Leliana, they hear her arguing with a Chancellor Roderick, who as soon as he catches sight of her, orders Cassandra to take her to Val Royeaux to face execution. 

“Order _me?”_ Cassandra growled, frowning so hardat the chancellor she was surprised he didn’t drop dead out of sheer fright, “You are a glorified clerk; a bureaucrat!” 

The chancellor shouts that she is a thug, and then all three of them start arguing about how the Divine is dead, and they still have to elect a replacement. 

“So no one’s in charge here?” she asks quietly (no one in charge is good; that hopefully means no one carting her off to be killed. Cassandra or that Commander from Kirkwall Varric mentioned, was probably in charge of all the soldiers, but at the very least, Cassandra seemed disinclined to kill her right now, and that Commander wasn’t here) 

“You _killed_ everyone who was in charge!” the chancellor yells at her. 

(She did not. She would never. There were so many people at the Conclave—and she is not someone who really believes that the end justifies the means. That way leads to unpleasant places and consequences.) 

The chancellor wants to call retreat, Cassandra argues for simply charging at the temple, and Leliana counters with using their soldiers as a distraction while they go through mountains. 

“We lost contact with entire squad on that path!” Cassandra points out, “It’s too risky.” 

The Breach flares, but this time she’s ready for it, so she digs her nails into her palm and grits her teeth and rides out the pain (it’s—less than before. Maybe she’s simply gotten used to it, but she thinks it more likely that something about closing that rift helped. It’s less like acid and more like a stabbing sensation now) 

Cassandra turns to her, “How do _you_ think we should proceed?” 

She gapes at Cassandra, her eyebrows rising straight into her hairline, “You’re asking _me?”_

“You have the mark,” Solas pointed out. 

“And you are the one we must keep alive,” Cassandra said firmly, “Since we cannot agree on our own….” 

(She’s not going to charge; that’s rash and stupid, and she needs to stay alive to close the Breach and find Oscar. The mountain path may have something deadly, but it probably won’t be in the kind of numbers that are near the direct path to the temple, and she has Cassandra accompanying her. Also—if more soldiers are being used as a distraction, there will be less soldiers to run from after the Breach is closed and Oscar is found.) 

“Let’s use the mountain path,” she said. 

Cassandra grimaces, but Varric nods agreeably. Leliana begins ordering her scouts around, and Cassandra yells orders at her soldiers. 

As they move out, the chancellor calls out, “On your head be the consequences, Seeker.” 

It’s a long climb up the mountain pass, with more snow and an abnormal number of ladders to scale (who had built this place up here? Why build it up here? She had heard that Haven had once had some sort of strange dragon cult here, but did they seriously climb up this way all the time?), and as soon as they get to the top, there are more wraiths and demons to fight. They manage to fight their way through (she had taken a mana potion at the forward camp, but quite honestly, she’s surprised how little she seemed to need it. Lightning has always been the easiest thing for her to call down, but—she used to need more potions to generate the sheer amount she’s been calling down, hadn’t she?), and then near the ridge, they see another rift and the scouts under attack by demons. As Cassandra slashes her way through the demons, and Varric fires bolt after bolt, Solas casts barrier spells on the scouts, she manage to run close enough to the rift for her left hand to start glowing. There is once again that _pulling_ sensation (like a wave drawing back, or coming back to her rooms, or a key clicking into a lock), and so she holds up her hand, draws in a breath as light comes pouring out of the mark at the rift, and it shatters and closes. 

Solas looked at where the rift had been and then gave her a pleased smile, “Sealed, as before. You are becoming quite proficient at this.” 

(She doubts that; it feels more like the mark just reacting to the rift and pulling her along. She can’t say she likes something like that stuck on _her_ , but if it’s all they have to seal the rifts, she supposes she’ll have to put up with it for now) 

“Let’s hope it works on the big one,” Varric comments. 

The lead scouts thanks Cassandra, but Cassandra turns toward her and says, “Thank our prisoner, lieutenant. She insisted we come this way.” 

The scout blinks at her, “The prisoner? Then you…?” 

She pulls a pleasant smile on her face (the one Andi had always scoffed at, calling it her ‘noblewoman’ face), and manages to say, “It was worth saving you, if we could.” 

“Then you have my sincere gratitude,” the scout replies with a slight bow. 

(She feels a fraud, but the more allies she makes here, the less trouble she and Oscar will have getting away. Hopefully.) 

They climb down the hill, and for the first time, she sees what remains of the Conclave. Everything is ash and dust, and there are bodies—so many bodies, grotesquely twisted and on fire and contorted—and she starts to think—Oscar couldn’t have survived this—but somehow she did? That made no sense—but he wasn’t here—or more horribly, he is, and she doesn’t recognize his body— 

(What is she going to do—what is she going to say—she already has to write a letter to her mother, does she have to write one to Iluuser as well? Saying that she failed? That she had not kept her promise? That Oscar—they should never have come here, she should never have brought him, _why?_ Why why why why **_why_**? She wants to fall down and scream and wail and weep but— 

Oscar would want her to finish the job and then mourn. Like he had protected her and the apprentices. So—she would close the Breach and then—and then write the letters somehow and then— 

She has to tell Marcel also. Dear Maker, when would it _end?_ Was this to be her lot in life, burying her friends one by one until she is the last one standing?) 

“The Temple of Sacred Ashes,” Solas states, glancing at her as she breathes through her nose and bites her lip and tries not to let the hot tears in her eyes fall. 

“What’s left of it,” Varric murmurs, glancing around. 

“That is where you walked out of the Fade, and our soldiers found you,” Cassandra says, pointing at a crumbling arch where burning bodies still crouch. 

(How is she still alive, if Oscar is not?) 

She steps her way through the ruins, numb and blank as she stares at each body she encounters (their faces have melted away, and all she can see are their skulls—could one of them be Oscar? She doesn’t know). And at the center of the ruins, directly below the Breach in the sky, is the largest glowing green gemlike cluster she has seen so far, spilling out acid green light that spirals up to the sky. 

“The Breach is a long way up,” Varric commented, staring up into the light, and even through her grief, she has to agree. She’s not sure how close she has to be to close that thing, but hopefully it’s not far because there is no ladder made tall enough to reach that far. 

Leliana and the soldiers appear and begin to get into position around the ruins as Cassandra turns to her, “This is your chance to end this. Are you ready?” 

“I’m not sure how to even start getting up to that thing,” she says honestly, digging her nails into her palm. 

Solas shakes his head, “No, this rift was the first, and it is the key. Seal it, and perhaps we seal the Breach.” 

(Easy to say—still does not present a solution, but she guesses they’ll try to get as close as they can and then see if it works. This is a horrible plan, but she has to say— 

If this is where it ends for her—she can’t say she’s especially dismayed at the thought) 

They make their way down carefully, but as they draw near some strange glowing red crystal like structures, Varric stiffens. 

“That stuff is red lyrium,” he says, grabbing her arm to keep her from walking by it, “What’s it _doing_ here?” 

“Magic could have drawn on lyrium beneath the temple, corrupted it…” Solas intoned, not looking especially worried. 

Varric frowns and shakes his head, “It’s evil; whatever you do, don’t touch it.” 

(She has never heard of red lyrium—but looking at how serious the stuff made Varric who up until now had been grinning and throwing out quips the entire way, she carefully steps her way around the crystals that are scattered across the path) 

As they draw closer to the center, there is an odd echo, a deep voice intoning, “Now is the hour of our Victory. Bring forth the sacrifice.” 

“What are we hearing?” Cassandra asked, looking around. 

“At a guess: the person who created the Breach,” Solas said calmly. 

(What was with this guy? How did he know all this stuff?) 

“Keep the sacrifice still,” the deep voice continued. 

An Orlesian woman’s voice cried out, “Someone help me!” 

Cassandra whirled around, “That is Divine Justinia’s voice!” 

The Divine’s plea echoes again, and then—she hears Oscar’s voice, sounding tired but angry, “What the hell?” 

“What are you _doing_?” her own voice cuts in furiously. 

Cassandra stares at her, “That was _your_ voice. Most Holy called out to you. But…” 

Her hand begins to glow, and out of the rift comes a faded image, like smoke or mist over a river, swirling into the Divine being held up in the air by magic while a shadowy tall figure towers over her. And all of them watch as from the side, as a shadowy image of both her and Oscar run in and blanch. 

“Run while you can! Warn them!” the Divine yells at them. 

The shadowy figure turns and points at them, “We have intruders. Slay the mages.” 

The image dissipates like smoke, and Cassandra rounded on her, “You _were_ there!” she yells, jabbing at her with her finger, “Who attacked? And the Divine, is she—was this vision true? What are we seeing?” 

“I don’t _remember,”_ she grits out, wanting to blast something out of frustration. 

(Oscar had been there with her. That had been his voice, and he had run in right in front of her. But—where was he? For that matter, where was the Divine? And what was that gigantic shadowy figure? Did that mean that Oscar could still be— 

How much she wishes that were true but—they said she had stepped out of rift—only her. And the figure behind her had been a woman not a man. Had Oscar died at the hands of that shadowy figure’s accomplices trying to protect her? 

She will end that person. It will not bring him back, and it will not repair the promise that she has broken but—but if she can stand in front of Iluuser and say that her brother’s killer is dead at her own hands, then maybe— 

It won’t make it better, but it will be something) 

“Echoes of what happened here. The Fade bleeds into this place,” Solas commented, “This rift is not sealed, but it is closed…albeit, temporarily. I believe that with the mark, the rift can be opened, and the sealed properly and safely. However, opening the rift will likely attract attention from the other side.” 

“Stand ready!” Cassandra orders the soldiers around them. 

She breathes deeply, then holds out her hand toward the rift, and once again there is that _pull_ and the rift bursts open. Unfortunately, this time, instead of simple wraiths and sloth demons, a gigantic horned pride demon climbs out. 

The battle is fierce, with pride demon lashing out with whips of electricity, Cassandra determinedly charging at it, random demons and wraiths also crawling out of the rift and slashing at the barriers Solas has cast, arrows and bolts flying everywhere, but at last, the pride demon goes down, and she pushes her hand at the rift again, and feels the weird sensation crawl this time over her whole body. The rift flashes and bursts, and the green maelstrom dims, and she smiles a bit before darkness claims her. 

She finished her task; Oscar would be proud. 

(When she wakes up, she is twenty-five and will be hailed the Herald of Andraste, and nothing will be the same again) 


	13. Amell: Broken Circle

She knew something was wrong as soon as she saw Carroll guarding the boat at the docks instead of Kester. Carroll wasn’t exactly the most…reliable of the Templars of Kinloch Hold. The rumor was that his lyrium habit was worse than most, and the stuff had eaten away at his mind. Whatever the truth of the matter, at the very least, Carroll was usually too loopy for Knight Commander Greagoir to assign him anything more than simple guard duty, preferably in the shade by the greenhouses. (The one time he was supposed to be watching the apprentice mages, a bunch of ten year old mages had decided to use him as their personal Templar climbing tree, and it had taken First Enchanter Irving to extricate him from that mess) What was he doing out here out on the docks?

Carroll started when he saw her, “You! Come back to make more trouble, have you? First you and Jowan, then Anders again, and now you! Again!”

She narrowed her eyes at him, “Anders? What happened with Anders?”

Carroll scoffed, “As if you don’t know! He ran away again, of course. And now—well anyway, you’re not looking to get across to the Tower, are you? Because I have strict orders not to let anyone pass.”

(Anders had escaped again? With the Blight going on, he might actually get pretty far, but she hopes he’s careful.)

“Where’s Kester?” she asked, “Why do you have his boat?”

“Templar business: no one to be allowed in or out of the Tower for the foreseeable future,” Carroll replied promptly. 

She shook her head (she’s not sure what’s going on; she’s never heard of access to the Tower being cut off before. Did it have something to with Jowan? Did they think Anders was also an accomplice? But why bar passage when the two were already gone? Did they want to make sure no other mages managed to escape? Whatever it was, they didn’t have time for this), and said patiently, “Carrol, let us pass. Grey Warden business”

Carroll raised his eyebrow, “Oh you’re a Grey Warden now, are you? Prove it.”

Amdir glared at the Templar, “What the hell—you were _there_ when me and Duncan arrived! I remember you! You were that _shem_ who stuffed an entire cake down his gullet before you let us in!”

“For all I know, you guys ran away before you _actually_ became Wardens. I want to see some proof,” Carroll replied primly.

She sighed, reached into her pack, and took out the treaties, carefully wrapped in wax papers, “Will this do?”

Carroll unwrapped the papers carelessly and glanced at them, “A Grey Warden seal, really? You know, I have some documents too; they say I’m the queen of Antiva! What do you think of that?”

She felt a headache building but smiled at Carroll as ice began to spread around her feet, “Carroll, do you really want to do this? I know about that girl in Wutherford, I know that you talk an awful lot with carta dwarves, and I know that I’ve knocked you into the dirt every time you faced me on the training grounds. Let us pass.”

Carroll’s eyes flickered, but his hand closed around his sword, “No! I've one job, and one job only, and by the Maker's shiny gold cutlery, I will do it!"

She clenched her fist and is about to try and freeze Carroll into an ice statue (she will freeze a path across the lake and _walk_ to the Tower if she has to; what is going on?) when Alistair quickly stepped between the two of them, “Hey, hey, guys, can’t we work something out?”

Carroll tilted his head consideringly, “I don’t know…I am feeling a little peckish though.”

Sten let out an annoyed huff of breath and stepped forward, pushing a small brown package into Carroll’s hands, “Pashara, here. Munch on these if you like.”

“Ooo, cookies!” Carroll said with delight, opening the package. 

Their entire group turns to stare at the qunari. 

He shrugs at them, “I am content to part with them if it saves us from this fool.”

“Where did you get these?” she finally asks carefully. 

“There was a child; a fat, slovenly thing in the last village we passed. I relieved him of these confections; he didn’t need more,” Sten replied calmly. 

“You stole cookies from a _child_?” Alistair asked, eyes wide. 

“For his own good,” Sten said solemnly. 

(Now that she thinks about it, she does remember a rather round child crying in the last village they were in. And now they know why.)

Amdir bumps her shoulder and whispers, “I guess…he really likes cookies?”

“Apparently,” she replies dryly. 

Amdir sighed, “Another thing to watch out for. Loghain’s men searching for us, sticks for Barkspawn, and children to protect from cookie-snatching.”

She bumps his shoulder back, “We must keep the children of Ferelden safe from cookie-snatching qunari,” she whispers back, mock-solemnly. 

Carroll finishes off the last of the cookies, and smacks his lips, “Mmm, yummy! You scratch my back, I’ll scratch yours, yes? We can go across now, if you really want. Come along I suppose.”

It’s a tight fit; the ferry was designed with less people in armor in mind, but somehow they manage to squeeze everyone on board, even if Alistair is nearly on top of Carroll, Barkspawn is sprawled across her and Amdir’s legs (he’s kind of heavy, but he looks so delighted by the water they’re going past that she just rubs his ears), Sten is practically folded double, and Leliana is very flexible and practically curled up into a ball next to Morrigan (who they had tried to convince to stay at camp since she was obviously an apostate, but Morrigan had tossed her head and refused, so she was resigned to just claiming Morrigan was a Warden and freezing her tongue if she tried to protest). 

Morrigan grimaces as the Tower comes into view, “How very fitting that they would build a prison for mages in the middle of a lake and make it look like a giant phallus.”

She laughs and shifts a bit (or tries anyway. Mabari are built like tanks. Warm cuddly tanks, but tanks), “Kinloch Hold was actually built by the Avvars with the help of the dwarves, then taken over by Tevinter. Chantry didn’t use it as a Circle until later, because it was thought to be cursed.”

“And that makes it _so_ much better,” Amdir said dryly, trying to bat Barkspawn’s tail out of his face. 

Alistair leaned back a bit, trying to give her some more space, but crowding more into Carroll in the process, “I always wondered why the mages built their tower on Lake Calenhad; thought they had an aversion to practicality or something.”

She shrugged, “Well, it is harder to run with water surrounding you on all sides. Anders is the only person I know who could swim all the way to shore from the Tower.”

Carroll frowned and opened his mouth, but Leliana quickly cut in, “The view from the top must be spectacular!” she chirped, staring up at it. 

“That it is,” she agrees, wrapping her arms around herself and staring as her home and prison draws closer and closer. 

She feels the gnawing sensation of worry in her stomach grow when they enter the tower to see Templars running around, frantically barring the great doors that led to the rest of the tower, piling up boxes of potions, and chugging lyrium as though there was going to be a shortage soon. 

(This isn’t right. This is too much for some escaped mages, even if one was a confirmed bloodmage. Fifteen years in the Tower, and she has never seen so many Templars clanking around in such a panic….except, this wasn’t even all the Templars. Quite honestly, this isn’t even half of them. Where’s Cullen?)

“…and I want two men stationed within sight of the doors at all times. Do _not_ open the doors without my express consent. Is that clear?” the Knight Commander orders, walking over to a Templar near them.

The Templar salutes him, “Yes, ser!”

Alistair watches the Templar run off, and turns to her, “The doors are barred. Are they keeping people out? Or _in?”_

She bites her lip (frost beginning to form on her skin) and walks toward the Knight Commander.

The Knight Commander seems preoccupied, still staring at the great door intently, “Now we wait and pray,” he mutters to himself. 

“Knight-Commander Greagoir,” she said, standing straight (she manages to not rub her hands together nervously, but still if he looks, he’ll notice that they are covered in frost). 

The Knight Commander turned around and crossed his arms, “Well, look who’s back. A proper Grey Warden now, are we? Glad you’re not dead,” he said, his voice flat, but with a slight sardonic lift of his eyebrows. 

She ignores his comment (she has no idea if he’s being sarcastic or not; they had parted on bad terms, but the Knight Commander had always been strict but fair. He probably would not want her unnecessary death; maybe he thought that Ostagar was punishment enough for what had happened), “What’s happening?” she asks.

The Knight Commander shakes his head, “I shall speak plainly: The tower is no longer under our control. Abominations and demons stalk the tower’s halls. We were too complacent. First Jowan, then Anders, now this. And don’t think I’ve forgotten about _your_ role in all of this.”

“I wouldn’t expect you to,” she replies automatically, trying to keep her magic from flaring but she can already feel the temperature around them plummeting. 

( _Abominations and demons?_ How—what had _happened?_ The Templars can blame themselves for being too complacent all they liked, but for it to come to this—she had thought that Jowan’s blood magic was an outlier, a curiosity that had turned into something much darker and deadlier, but—someone must have taught him. Jowan is—not dumb, but certainly not smart enough to have figured out how to take on Templars using blood magic on his own. She had thought that he had just managed to find an especially detailed tome on the subject in the forbidden sections of the library, but…if he had been taught instead, that means it was someone in the Circle. Someone who had not been cast out when they had been caught. Someone who could be behind this mess.)

“I can only hope that someday Jowan gets what he deserves,” the Knight Commander continued, “But right now, I have other pressing concerns.”

“Where is First Enchanter Irving?” she asks (if she can talk to him—they might not have parted on the best of terms either, but his advice would be sorely comforting right now)

The Knight Commander pressed his lips together into a thin line, “We don’t know. We saw only demons, hunting Templars and mages alike. I realized we could not defeat them and—told my men to flee.”

(The First Enchanter gone as well? No. _No,_ he was getting on in years, but he was still the First Enchanter of Kinloch Hold, and she had seen him hold his own on the training grounds, with lightning storms that lit up the skies. She could not believe he was lost. He still had to be in there…along with everyone else.)

“There must be something that can be done,” she says, staring hard at the Knight Commander.

The Knight Commander’s mouth thins further, “I have sent word to Denerim, calling for reinforcements and the Right of Annulment.”

This time she doesn’t even try to suppress her magic as frost spreads from her feet and begins forming jagged spikes across the ground. 

(No. **_No._**

No mage survives if the Right of Annulment is called in. Everyone—Alissa, Elaine, Roger, even the children just brought to the Tower—everyone will be killed. Everyone she has known her entire life here will be slaughtered like animals no matter their involvement in whatever had happened. 

She can’t let that happen. She _won’t_ let that happen.)

“You can’t do that!” she yells at the Knight Commander, her staff already in her hand. 

(Making the Knight Commander back down, fighting the Knight Commander…will not be easy. He is in charge of Kinloch Hold for a reason, and if he hits her with a Holy Smite, she will be done. But, this is her home, this is her family, and she will _not_ let them be murdered)

Alistair carefully put a hand on her arm to make her lower her staff, “As I recall, shutting the door and throwing away the key was definitely the templar Plan B,” he says dryly to the Knight Commander. 

She snatches back her arm and glares at the Knight Commander, “There are _children_ in there!” she hisses at him, “If even one mage still stands, they would try and keep them safe.”

“This situation is dire,” The Knight Commander broke in, “There is no alternative—everything in the tower must be destroyed so it can be made safe again.”

“There may still be some alive!” she shouts at him, clenching her fists to keep herself from throwing a blizzard at him (although the shutters in the Tower have begun to rattle). 

“If any are still alive, the Maker Himself has shielded them,” The Knight Commander snapped at her, rubbing his face, “ _No one_ could have survived those monstrous creatures. It is too painful to hope for survivors and find…nothing.”

The wind outside dies down a bit, and her staff stops glowing. She had forgotten; the Knight Commander and the First Enchanter are friends, oddly enough given how often they clash and disagree. (He would not call in the Right unless he truly believed there was no other way, but she is not him. She doesn’t care how slim that chance is; she is going to go look for her family, and damn anyone who stood in her way.)

“I’m going to go look,” she tells him, smiling at him and daring him to disagree, “I’m going to clean out the Tower, and then you will have no need to call in the Right, will you?” 

The Knight Commander levels a look at her, “I assure you, Amell, for all your prowess on the training grounds, you have never fought an abomination. An abomination is a force to be reckoned with, and you will face more than one.”

She continued smiling at him, tilting her head as ice drew up her staff, “They’ve never met me, and they will wish they hadn’t.”

The Knight Commander sighed, “That arrogance hangs about you like some fell cloud, doesn’t it? If you succeed I would owe you much, enough that I would pledge my Templars to your cause. Without word from Denerim, _I_ must determine our course. Surely destroying darkspawn is a worthy goal.”

(Well…that was a surprise. Quite honestly, she had forgotten the main reason they were here. And if she must be even more honest, the only problem she can deal with right now is making sure the Right is cancelled. Still, it’s good to know that they will have support as long as they succeed here)

She holds out her hand, widening her smile, “Then we have a deal.”

The Knight Commander pauses, but shakes her hand, “A word of caution: once you cross that threshold, there is no turning back. The great doors must remain barred. I will open them for _no one_ until I have proof that it is safe. I will only believe it is over if the First Enchanter stands before me and tells me it is so. If Irving has fallen…then the Circle is lost and must be destroyed.”

She takes a deep breath and nods again, “Understood.”

The Knight Commander dips his head in acknowledgement, “May Andraste lend you her courage, whatever you decide,” he says as he motions for the Templars by the great door to unlock them at let their group pass.

When the doors clang shut behind them (is it a final sound? She can’t let it be, all of the Tower is at stake here), Amdir carefully puts a hand on her shoulder and says softly, “Hey. You okay?”

She breathes and grips her staff tighter to hide how her hands are trembling (she can’t hide the frost that follows her every step though), “I…let’s find the First Enchanter, shall we?”

“You were his apprentice right? I think he’s fine,” Amdir said, with a twitch of his mouth that hinted at a smile. 

“Since he’s your teacher, he’s probably already killed all the abominations in the Tower and is making tea as we speak,” Alistair chimed in, looking her in the eye, “We’ll find him, the Knight Commander will see that this is just a huge misunderstanding, and it’ll be fine.”

She smiles tightly at both of them and nods (the First Enchanter may be fine—has to be fine, but everyone else…how long has this been going on? Surely Alissa and Elaine were alright; Alissa was one of the most gifted spirit healer in years if unorthodox in her methods, she could keep them alive. And Elaine would see to it that Roger came to no harm. But Cullen—surely he was alright? There were other Templars, and they were trained for this, weren’t they? Slaying abominations and demons? He was alright, he was just…helping other people perhaps, that’s why he hadn’t been at the Tower entrance with the others)

They walk through the apprentice quarters, the place that she has walked through thousands upon thousands of times, and her smile slides off her face. There are bodies lying on the ground, and these are all mages she knows. That’s Aimee; she loved creating simple illusion spells like sparkles or snow and charming sweets from the kitchens. That’s Maron; he got here barely a year ago and had just turned fourteen and had been picking up lessons in the infirmary. That’s Adair; he was fluent in five languages and had been busy trying to learn Antivan when she had left. And there are more bodies scattered in the hallways as well (that’s Rila, arguably the prettiest mage in the Tower, that’s Seamus, he had a repertoire of dirty jokes that would scandalize a pirate, that’s—and she has to look away, but she can’t because what if the next one is Alissa or Elaine? And even if they aren’t, she owes it to them to remember their faces and names and avenge them, and it is all she can do to not retch, and she promises, she swears, whoever did this will _pay_ , she swears it on all of their names)

Sten glances around, his expression barely changing, “This is the prison for your mages? Ours is not so grand.”

Morrigan sniffs, “So the mages are all locked within? A fitting end for those who gave up their own freedom.”

She looks as though she wants to say more, but the apostate mage shuts her mouth with a click when she sees the look Iluuser levels at her. 

(They did not deserve this. They hadn’t even—their lives had barely begun, they could have done great things, they could have traveled to far off places…but they are gone. And she will send more after them so the Maker can judge whoever caused this and send them to the Void. She swears it to them.)

They pass through the hall toward the center of the Tower, and her grip on her staff grows tighter and tighter as they pass more bodies, and Barkspawn stays glued to her side, nuzzling his head into her leg with each body they pass. That helps some (a bit, very little), but by the time they open the door, her staff is nearly ablaze with light. 

She blinks as she sees a shimmering barrier covering the doorway to the second floor and then notices some children huddled in groups around the chamber. She barely has time to feel the slight ripple of relief (at least someone has survived), when a flaming rage demon barrels its way through the barrier. She lifts a hand to send some of the cold swirling around her at it, but a white haired mage quickly steps in front of it, and in a flash of light, the rage demon is no more. The mage turns around, and she sees that it is Wynne.

(So someone else had survived Ostagar and whatever had devastated the Tower as well. She would take this as a good omen.)

Wynne turns to face them, and her eyes widen in surprise, “Iluuser? You’ve returned to the Tower? Why did the Templars let you through? Are you here to warn us?”

She lets her grip on her staff loosen a bit and tries to let some of the ice around her melt, “It is good to see you, Senior Enchanter. I am here to find the First Enchanter for the Knight Commander.”

Wynne nodded but didn’t lower her staff, “If anyone could survive this, it would be Irving. It was he who told me to look after the children. The Templars have barred the doors. They will only open them if they intend to attack us. Is that what is happening?”

“They are waiting for reinforcements and the Right of Annulment to be approved,” she replied, her voice heavy with dread. 

Wynne’s mouth tightens at her words, “So Greagoir thinks the Circle is beyond hope. He probably assumes we are all dead.”

The older mage began to pace, “They abandoned us to our fate, but even trapped as we are, we have survived. If they invoke the Right, however, we will not be able to stand against them.”

She shook her head, “Not against two fronts, no.”

“I erected a barrier over the door leading to the rest of the Tower, so nothing from inside could attack the children,” Wynne said, pointing at the barrier, “I will dispel it if you join with me to save this Circle”

“How can I not?” she asks with the first genuine smile that she has made since she has entered this nightmare. 

(Wynne is possibly the best spirit healer in all of Ferelden; having her at their side will make things much easier. And maybe she knows something about who is responsible for all of this.)

Wynne nods, relaxing for the first time since they walked into the room, “Once Greagoir sees that we have made the Tower safe, I trust he will tell his men to back down. He is not unreasonable.”

“The Knight Commander said that he will only call it off if Irving is in front of him, safe and sound,” she says.

Wynne mouth quirks up into a wry smile, “Then our path is laid out before us. We must save Irving.”

She nods then glances at the groups of children clustered around, “Will the children be safe here?” 

“Peetra and Kinnon will watch them. If we slay all the fiends we encounter on our way, none will get by to threaten the children,” Wynne says, gesturing toward the two mages (it’s good to see other survivors—and maybe one of them had news about any of the others).

“You want us to assist this preachy schoolmistress?” Morrigan broke in, throwing a disdainful look across the entire room, “To rescue these pathetic excuses for mages? They allow themselves to be corralled like cattle, mindless. Now their masters have chosen death for them, and I say let them have it.”

She turns to face Morrigan, her mouth dragging up into an expression that is less a smile and more like a feral animal baring their teeth, “Morrigan, I will only say this once, so please listen to me.” 

She slams her staff on the ground and an icicle springs from the ground toward the golden-eyed apostate, stopping just centimeters from her pale throat, “If you suggest again that these people deserve to die, you will face me. And you don’t want that. Are we clear?”

Morrigan’s eyes dart down at the icicle then back to her face, Iluuser’s smile still firmly in place. 

“Fine,” she spat out, and Iluuser nods and lets the ice melt away. 

Wynne raises an eyebrow at their antics, but chooses not to comment. “Peetra, Kinnon, look after the others, I will be back soon,” she instructs the two mages quietly. 

“Wynne…are you sure you’re alright?” Peetra asks worriedly, “You were so badly hurt earlier. Maybe I should come along.”

Wynne shakes her head, “The others need your protection more. I will be alright. Stay here with them; keep them safe and calm.”

“We will be back before you know it,” she says to the children, letting her expression soften when she faces them. 

Wynne sighs, “Your confidence is refreshing, though you should make sure it does not blind you to your weaknesses.”

She nods (odd that both Wynne and the Knight Commander have similar comments. She guesses her show of bravado must be convincing because otherwise…well, if they can’t see how hard her jaw in clenched, and how her stomach is twisted all in knots, and how her hands are white from the death grip they have on her staff, so much the better). Wynne wants to check a few things before leaving, so they simply hang around the barrier waiting for her, Amdir checking and rechecking the sheathes for his knives, Morrigan with her mouth a moue of displeasure, Barkspawn wandering over to the children to play with them (the children seem eager and happy to have Barkspawn drool all over them, so that’s good. They’ve probably never seen a mabari before), Sten simply looking around, and Leliana checking the number of arrows she has. 

Alistair looks almost as uncomfortable as she feels, and she needs a distraction (the names of the dead are a litany in her head, and she has to remember them, but if she doesn’t think about something else, she will scream, and she can’t break down, not here, not now), so she asks, “Thinking about what it would have been like to be stationed here?”

Alistair chuckles, stretching a bit, “No guarantees I would have been stationed here; supposedly being a Templar here is a great honor, and it’s not like I was a model Templar. Plus, too close to Redcliffe; doubt the arlessa would have liked that. Still—I’m sorry that your home is devastated by demons—wait, that sounds terrible. It sounded better in my head. But I really am sorry,” he looks at her earnestly. 

She nods, touching his arm briefly in gratitude, “Thank you. This place…I know Morrigan thinks it’s just a prison, and she’s not entirely wrong, but…this was also home.”

“Well, Morrigan’s usually wrong about most things. Are your friends…?” Alistair gestured helplessly around the chamber, “They’re not here?”

“I know everyone here, but close friends…no,” she said, glancing around the chamber again even though she knows she isn’t going to see a glossy black braid, or Elaine’s fine brown hair, or a mop of blonde curls, “They weren’t at the entrance either, but I suppose…I should just be happy they weren’t among the dead outside.”

“Well, we’re already doing better than the Knight Commander expected,” Alistair commented, “Not that that’s hard.”

She smiles a little at that and is about to ask him what he had planned to do before Duncan had spirited him away from the order when a dark haired girl wanders by (Keili, one of the more devout mages, who despite that, had gotten along tremendously with Anders due to their mutual adoration of cats) 

“It’s you!” Keili exclaims, “The tower isn’t how you remember, is it?”

“That would be an understatement,” she says dryly, “Have you seen Alissa? Or Elaine? Or Cullen?”

Keili shakes her head, “I keep thinking this is our punishment for being mages,” she says softly, “That’s why the Templars have to—to do away with us.”

She stares at the girl. Keili was always more religious than most of them, but this is another level. 

Leliana quickly broke in, “No, don't say that. It's not true. You deserve to live, just like anyone else.”

“Their swords are like the—the sword of mercy that sent Andraste back to the Maker,” Keili said dreamily. 

“The only reason Andraste needed that sword was because she had been betrayed,” she snapped at her (does she even hear the drivel that is coming out of her mouth?), “We are not Andraste at the pyre; we can still come out of this.”

“Andraste only died because of man’s foolishness and pride. We need to atone for this,” Keili said stubbornly, with her chin up, “We should let the Templars come. Only then can we be cleansed of our wickedness”

She shakes her head (the girl is…obviously disturbed. Maybe with some rest and quiet, she will recover. Hopefully. Or she’ll be a fanatic the rest of her days, there’s a pretty thought), “Go rest.”

Keili nods, “I will pray. May we abandon our tainted bodies to find peace with the Maker.”

“And you still want to save all of them?” Morrigan muttered to her as Keili walked away.

“Yes,” she replied shortly, with a hard glance. 

Morrigan sniffs and walks away. (She should go over there and smooth things over but…but she will not permit talk of abandoning the remnants of her family. She won’t. And besides, didn’t Morrigan always talk about how strength was the first rule in life? Perhaps she didn’t like seeing it used against her) At least Eadric is happy to see her alive and well, even in these circumstances. He tells her how Wynne got back from Ostagar to inform everyone of Loghain’s treachery, and that is happy news as well. 

After Eadric walks away to tend to some of the smaller children, Peetra walks over and pulls her aside, “Look after her, will you?” she says, anxiously. 

She glances at Wynne, “You said she was hurt earlier?”

Peetra nods, “I was on my way down to the library when I heard screaming, and a demon came around the corner. Its eyes were afire with evil—I was certain it was my death come upon me. I think I screamed, I was so afraid—and then Wynne was there, in front of me, shielding me. It was light and fire and blood and chaos. When it was over, the demon was dead, but Wynne wasn’t moving either. I was so afraid she was…gone.”

She frowns and looks closer at the white-haired mage who was smiling and easily healing the wound of another one of the mages, “She seems alright. Did she heal herself?”

“I don’t know, just look after her, alright?” Peetra says seriously, “She might be completely fine, but then again, maybe she didn’t come away from that completely unharmed.”

“I’ll keep an eye on her,” she promises (hopefully it is nothing. Just nerves, and Peetra not seeing what actually happened. Wynne looks quite spry for how old she is, after all). 

“Thank you. And thank you again for going in,” Peetra says, relieved. 

They gather around the barrier, and Wynne closes her eyes and lets the barrier fall (she’s surprised she managed to keep it up so long. She didn’t see any mana potions in the chamber, but maybe they had already been used up). They walk through the hallways into the library (she’s spent so many hours here, and now the floors are stained with blood, and there are more bodies scattered about, Templar and mage alike). She kneels by one with brown hair (not Elaine, _please_ not Elaine), and that’s when the first abomination comes barreling around the corner. 

(For all the Chantry likes to preach about abominations and how easy it would be for any mage to turn into one and how that has been a staple nightmare of hers for ages, she has never actually seen one before. It is ugly, twisted, misshapen, with pustules and fleshy things all over it, and it is impossible to tell who it might have once been. Perhaps that is for the best)

They defeat a series of them in the library, her magic spreading like a winter storm across the shelves, Wynne a nexus of shields and stonefists, Morrigan, for all her complaining, blasting the abominations with fire and lightning, Leliana raining arrows down on them, Amdir leaping and weaving and stabbing one abomination to then use it to vault onto another, Alistair bashing them with his shield and then hacking them down, Barkspawn charging them and tearing their throats out, and Sten cutting them down without a change in expression. (Hopefully, it will still be this easy, the higher up they go). 

They take the stairs to the second floor, and as they pass the storehouse, Wynne comments, “Owain’s room is near here; I hope he’s alright.”

(She knows that most people find the Tranquil eerie, and Maker knows that she has never quite been able to understand those who chose that over the Harrowing since she would not want to live as a hollow shell of herself, but she has grown up with Tranquil her entire life. Half of the time as a child she had been handed over to Tranquil watchers when the apprentice mages were busy. She had spent more than a few hours in Owain’s stockroom, climbing boxes while the man patiently intoned for her to please climb down. Owain has been in the Tower for as long as she or any of her fellow apprentices can remember, and there is a rumor that he never sleeps. She knows that he cannot actually feel affection for anyone or anything, but he had always gone along with her demands for pigy-back rides and stories, and she still hopes that he is okay)

“Please refrain from going into the stockroom. It is a mess, and I have not been able to get it into a state fit to be seen,” a familiar dull voice intones from a corner, and she turns around and breathes a sigh of relief to see Owain’s familiar blank face. 

“Owain? Why are you still here?” Wynne asked. 

“I tried to leave, when things got quiet,” Owain said, walking over to a tipped over box and stacking it up again, “That was when I encountered the barrier. Finding no other way out, I returned to work. I was trying to tidy up, but there was little I could do.”

“Owain, you should have said something!” Wynne scolded him, “I would have opened the door for you.”

“The stockroom is familiar. I prefer to be here,” Owain replied steadily.

“You haven’t been attacked?” she asked (she can see Morrigan rolling her eyes, but it’s a fair question)

“No. I suppose I should count myself lucky. I would prefer not to die. I would prefer it if the tower returned to the way it was. Perhaps Niall will succeed and save us all,” Owain said with a surprising note of hopefulness in his voice. 

(Niall? He was said to be considering joining the Isoloationists and taking on apprentices soon. Besides that, she has never interacted with the man much)

“What? What is he doing?” Wynne asked.

“I do not know, but he came here with several others, and took the Litany of Adralla,” Owain replied, pointing at an open box at the side of the room. 

“But that protects from mind domination. Is blood magic at work here?” Wynne asked, frowning. 

(Blood magic. Of course it would come down to that. Ever since Jowan revealed his little secret, blood magic keeps popping up in her life. Who had Jowan been hanging around, besides Lily, in the months leading up to her Harrowing?

But if she had known the answer to that question, if she had even known about Lily, maybe she could have knocked some sense into him. And maybe then they could have exposed the mastermind behind all of this before the tower had somehow sprouted abominations. She had a lot to answer for)

“I do not know,” Owain replied. 

“Blood magic…I was afraid of this,” Wynne sighed, turning toward them, “We should find Niall. The Litany will give us a fighting chance against any blood mages we encounter.”

Owain nods and steps toward the back of the storeroom, “I wish you luck. Perhaps this will be over soon, and things will return to the way they were.”

(She hopes so too…but there are so _many_ dead. Can anything be the way it was ever again?)

“You say you were afraid of this,” she said, looking at Wynne as they walk down the halls, “What happened here?”

Wynne sighs and tells them how she managed to escape from Ostagar, only to arrive at the Tower to discover that Senior Enchanter Uldred had nearly convinced the Circle to ally with Loghain in exchange for more freedoms. She had talked to the First Enchanter about Loghain’s treachery at Ostagar, and Irving had agreed to break off negotiations.

“I was not at the meeting when Irving and the others went to confront Uldred,” Wynne said, “So, I am not entirely clear about what happened, but when the abominations and demons appeared, Irving ordered me to get as many mages to safety as possible.”

“Then it is Uldred who is behind this?” she asked, flexing her fingers as the ice around her feet and on her staff grew sharper.

Wynne nods, “It is uncharitable of me to speak this way, but I never liked him. He was a squirelly, twitchy sort of person.”

(No one in the Tower liked Uldred; he had always been rude and stubborn, although the First Enchanter had said he was useful for rooting out blood mages. And now they know why. Now that she thinks about it…she had seen Jowan in Uldred’s company a few times and had thought it strange since Uldred was notorious for not wanting to take on any apprentices. She had asked Jowan about it, but he had brushed it off as the Senior Enchanter simply wanting him to run some errands for him. She should have asked more.)

“So after we find the First Enchanter, we deal with Uldred,” she says, smiling sweetly as ice grows to cover her arms and the rest of her body. 

“Seems like a plan,” Amdir commented, face twisting with disgust at the weird fleshy pustules that were beginning to fill the hallways. 

They turn the corner, and there are other mages standing there, and at their feet are the bloody bodies of three other mages (Eddard, solemn and quiet, Daphne, wild and always gave her a challenge on the training grounds, Lisel, sweet and such a flirt). As soon as they see them, the mages dip their hands in the blood pooling from the bodies at their feet, but before they can fling it any at them (blood magic corrupts quickly and corrosively, but she has never seen the results until now) she already has flung up an ice wall, and with a twist of her hand, adds spikes to it and flings it at them. Some of them don’t get out of the way in time, and those that don’t are trapped from running away by Wynne’s barriers and Leliana’s arrows and caught by Alistair’s or Sten’s sword or Amdir’s knives. 

The only one left standing is Kestral (Kestral who was a little younger than her, and who she had once taught how to braid her hair. Kestral who she had told stories to once. Kestral whose hands were still red from Lisel’s blood), who falls to the ground on her knees, “Please, _please_ , don’t kill me.”

She points her staff at the girl, letting her mouth draw up into a cold smile, “Kestral. Tell me why I shouldn’t kill you like you slaughtered Eddard and Daphne and Lisel.”

Kestral’s face is pale and her hands are trembling (and _red)_ as she begs, “I know I have no right to ask for mercy, but I didn’t mean for this death and destruction. We were just trying to _free ourselves_. Uldred told us that the Circle would support Loghain, and Loghain would help us be free of the Chantry. Don’t you remember what it was _like_ living here? The Templars watching…always watching.”

(And yes, they had always been watching, she knew that. Rumor even was that sometimes they peeped in the baths, and of course she remembers living here, and all the reasons she wanted to leave. And she can even see how it would be tempting, getting an offer to be free of the Chantry, even from a man who had betrayed his own king. But turning to blood magic and unleashing abominations upon the tower? Killing fellow mages? This she cannot forgive)

“And so you turn to blood magic,” she says calmly, tilting Kestral’s face up with her staff. 

“We thought—someone always has to take the first step—force a change, no matter the cost,” Kestral stammered, staring at her smiling face. 

Her smile widened, “Things have changed—for the worse, congratulations.”

“Nothing is worth what you’ve done to this place,” Wynne said, glaring at the girl.

Kestral shook her head slowly, looking down at the ground (at her hands?) “And now Uldred’s gone mad, and we are scattered, doomed to die at the hands of those who seek to right our wrongs…”

She jerked her staff, making Kestral look her in the eye, “You knew the price of seeking out blood magic.”

“But I—I would like a chance to atone for what I’ve done,” Kestral pleaded, her eyes wide with panic, “I could seek penance at the Chantry.”

Alistair snorted, “You know, they’ll never take you. They’re very picky about who they let in. Harlots, murderers, yes! Maleficarum, oh no.”

Leliana cut in, “Your comments betray your ignorance, Alistair. The Chantry accepts all, regardless of what they’ve done.”

Alistair’s eyebrows shot up, “Well, it seems you’re familiar with a whole other Chantry, because the one I know wouldn’t hesitate to shove a sword of mercy right through her heart.”

(She has to admit she agrees with Alistair; the Chantry in Kinloch Hold has never been shy about telling all of them how they are cursed in the sight of the Maker. It never felt all that accepting to her, but she is inclined to go along with their teachings right now and ram an icicle straight through Kestral’s heart)

“I just want my life,” Kestral said quietly, looking down at her (red) hands.

Amdir wiped his dagger off on one of the other blood mage’s robe (that was George; he had once eaten a whole cake in one sitting and had thrown up for the entire night afterwards) and said, “The mage army will be sparse as it is. We can’t waste any resources, no matter how dubious.”

(He has a point, even if she is loathe to just let her go. Half the Ferelden army and all the Grey Wardens except three lost at Ostagar means she must swallow her rage and let her walk free. But that does not mean she cannot leave a reminder)

“Very well, go join them and fight the Blight. But,” her hand snakes out and grips Kestral’s nose hard, “Let’s make sure you remember the mages you killed as well.”

Kestral screams as she lets frostbite shrivel her nose to black. The girl falls back as soon as she lets go, her ( _red_ ) hands flying up to touch the black, frostbitten stump on her face. 

“Go join the mages on the first floor,” she says with a wave of her hand, ignoring Kestral’s whimpers (if she managed to get down there fast enough, perhaps Peetra could save some of it, but there will definitely be a scar no matter what), “And if I ever hear about blood magic and you again, next time I will not be so kind.”

As Kestral ran off, Wynne shook her head, “This is unwise, you cannot trust her.”

“We need every person we can get,” she replies, baring her teeth and turning away (she doesn’t look at the rest of her group’s expressions) and walking down the halls, frost twining around the walls as she passes. 

(First Jowan, now Kestral. Who next will she find as a blood mage? Did she even ever know anyone here? She had thought that—well, she had always known that there were factions in the Circle, that’s what the different parties in the College of Enchanters were for. But she had thought that despite how much they argued, that at least, they wouldn’t turn on each other. She had been naïve)

“Hey,” Amdir said, walking up beside her, “Can you tone down the ice on the floor a bit? Hard to maneuver with that.”

She blinked and concentrated, letting the ice on the floor melt and focusing more on her staff, “Sorry about that,” she said quietly. 

“No worries,” Amdir said easily with a wry smile, “You’re doing better than I would, if this was the alienage. I would have killed that girl.”

She frowned and turned toward him, “You were the one who stopped me though?” 

Amdir shrugged, “I don’t always practice what I preach. Besides, I have to say, your way was most effective.”

“You approve then?” she asked, glancing at him.

“Don’t exactly like blood magic, and besides, the people she killed were like her family right?” Amdir replied, mouth twisting with disgust, “Now every time she looks in the mirror, she’ll remember that. Only people who disapprove are probably Leliana because she wants us to be like a merciful Andraste or something, and Morrigan because she disapproves of everything we’ve been doing here.”

“She’s been oozing disapproval since she joined,” Alistair commented as he caught up with them and then frowned, “Iluuser—you’re bleeding.”

She blinked and stared down at her side where he was pointing. It was true, there was a gash on her robe, and it was stained red. (She hadn’t even felt it—but then again, with her stomach churning and the cold that has seeped into her bones, she’s not surprised). She sighed and put a hand at her side and tried to concentrate enough to heal it (a simple wound from a stray claw, that was well within her paltry healing abilities), but calm will not come (the names of the dead swirl in her head, along with the image of Kestral and the others dipping their hands in blood, and the question of who the abominations she has killed were—there is no peace to be found here—)

“Let’s get Wynne to heal you,” Alistair broke in, looking at her worriedly. 

She shook her head, trying to clear her mind (calm, peace, tranquility—but how can she find that here with blood and bodies all around her home?), and gritting her teeth, “I can heal it; save Wynne’s mana for later—”

“You need to save some too, don’t you?” he asks, putting a tentative hand on her arm to draw it away, “Let Wynne handle it. Amdir’s already getting her.”

She would protest, but Wynne has already arrived and is fussing and tutting over the wound while Barkspawn places his paws on her leg and seems to woof disapprovingly at her. She scratches his ears and sighs, “Just a scratch, Barkspawn. Don’t worry so.”

“Do tell me sooner next time,” Wynne scolds, moving her hands away as the pain at her side ebbs away, “You are in no condition to be healing yourself at this point.”

“Yes, ma’m,” she replies, gingerly touching her side (there isn’t even a scar; Wynne wasn’t given leave to travel with the king’s army for nothing). 

They walk through the senior mage quarters, where they encounter more abominations, shambling corpses, and blood mages (Geoffrey, Lisa, Gwen, Simon, Rumil—she blasts them all with enough ice to turn them into statues and bashes them with her staff, shattering them). Still, Barkspawn stays stuck to her side throughout, and both Alistair and Amdir seem to be hanging close by as well. Sten is confused by the statues that line the halls (“What are all these statues? You mages have an unhealthy fascination for women with bowls”), and at one point, they encounter a rattling closet that reveals Godwin hiding within (there had always been rumors that Godwin was involved with smuggling in extra lyrium to sell to particularly addicted Templars; she hadn’t bothered to really look into it one way or another, but given how he cowers and runs back into the closet even after they slay the abominations, she’s not inclined toward being generous about him). 

The fourth floor is harder; this is where the Templars resided, and this is also where the Templars who are possessed and enthralled attack them. She’s met Templars on the training grounds before (technically, they weren’t supposed to go up against apprentices, but Senior Enchanter Curtis had very firm ideas about how _her_ battlemages could go up against anyone at any age, and that including Templars), but never this many, and all attempt to holy smite her and Wynne and Morrigan. It’s tricky, dodging and weaving, throwing up ice walls that melt as soon as a Templar focuses his powers on it, and by herself it perhaps would have been impossible (there are _so many_ and all of them are going straight for the kill), but thankfully, Barkspawn is there, knocking Templars to the ground, Leliana calmly shooting them down, Amdir darting in and out and stabbing them in the back, and Alistair, blocking holy smites with his shield and blasting them with some of his own (she hadn’t seen any lyrium in their supplies; maybe he’s still running on whatever he got at Ostagar? Although, a Templar’s lyrium habit was going to be troublesome later on). 

She carefully (or as carefully as she can with hands that shake) takes off the helmet of each Templar they defeat. None of them are Cullen (thank the Maker and his Bride), but she recognizes most of them (although she doesn’t know all of their names; Templars rotate in and out more often than mages, and few wanted to be friendly with the charges they may one day have to kill). Leliana murmurs prayers over them, and Morrigan mutters complaints but not quite as strenuously as before (Leliana did manage to shoot a templar straight through the slit in his helmet before he could smite Morrigan, and she had turned one to ice before he could reach the golden-eyed apostate as well). 

There’s a Templar enthralled by a desire demon in one of the rooms. He seems to think the horned, purple creature with jewelry substituting as clothing is his wife and that there are children running around the room. The desire demon whispers that what’s the harm? She is giving him everything he ever wanted; leave them be. She shakes her head and blasts the demon with lightning (better the cold, hard painful truth than a lie no matter how sweet, because a lie isn’t _real)_ , and in the end they have to strike down the Templar as well (Sten doesn’t seem happy with then, muttering something in Qunlat, but he is still following them). There is another blood mage (Pell, he had always been so ambitious, too ambitious. She had caught him cheating off her test once and had enchanted lizard tails to grow out of his sheets and blankets), this one commanding a legion of Templars and mages, all smeared red in a haze of blood. She goes after Pell, freezing the blood he tries to send at her, flipping and twirling and smashing her staff around to beat back his army, and when she is finally in front of him, she smiles at him, grabs him by the throat, and freezes him from the inside out.

(The mages that he turned into a hideous mockery of themselves are Liam, Ionna, Marci, Jakob, and Isiah. The Templars—she recognizes Ser Kell who had always turned a blind eye to apprentices sneaking snacks out of the kitchens and Ser Rebecca who had laughed when Elaine jokingly flirted with her, and the others she’s never met, but—Uldred will _pay,_ and Loghain after him)

They enter the Great Hall, and Sten nods at the statues decorating the walls, “Headless women with shields,” he says solemnly, “Much better than the bowls.”

They take a few steps and then stop. Niall’s body lies on the floor (he’s breathing, but his eyes are open and not blinking…?) and looming grotesquely over him, is an abomination with flesh that hangs like flaps and a twisted ruin of a face. 

“Oh look. Visitors. I’d entertain you but…too much effort involved,” it says slowly. 

“We’ll make our own entertainment,” she replies, letting ice draw up her skin again. 

The abomination tilts its head quizzically, “But why? Aren’t you _tired_ of all the violence in this world? I know I am. Wouldn’t you like to just lay down and… _forget_ about all this? Leave it all behind?”

(And she would, she is tired of all the blood, she is weary, her mana is at its limit even with potions, and…but no, they still have to find the First Enchanter. She still needs to find…Alissa and Elaine and Cullen…but _sleep_ …how much could it hurt to take a nap?)

“This is ridiculous,” Morrigan said with a yawn, “You cannot expect me…to rest on a…floor sticky with blood.”

“We must stand... And fight,” Sten said, but his words were slow, and he looked tired as well. 

Wynne clenched her hands, “Resist! You must…resist. Or we are all…lost.”

The abomination chuckled, “Why do you fight? You deserve _more_ …you deserve a _rest._ The world will go on without you.”

And as black fills her vision, and she hears her staff clatter to the floor, she only has a moment of panic before she falls into the dark and knows no more. 


	14. Trevelyan: Herald

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And Cullen finally appears at long last

She wakes up in a musty but soft bed in oddly clingy bejeweled beige pajamas that are surprisingly comfortable. Her head feels somewhat like it’s stuffed with cotton, and when she reaches up to touch her head, she sees that the center of her left hand is still glowing green. 

So. Not a dream. And by the looks of the plain wooden walls, furs on the floor and bed, and snow outside, she isn’t dead either. (She doubts the Maker’s side would look like Haven; and also—Oscar isn’t here. And neither is Andi) 

The door clicks open, and when she turns to look around, the young elf that comes in drops what he is holding, falls to his knees, and begins babbling apologies to her. He calls her “Your Worship,” and “my lady,” and she blinks and assumes she’s somehow been mistaken for one of her Chantry relatives. 

He says that Cassandra wants to see her and hurries away. (Of course the lady Seeker does; will she be brought to trial now? Let them accuse her; closing the Breach does not make up for anything else in the end) She stands up unsteadily (the boy says she’s been out three days), drags on the clothes, boots, and sturdy leather jacket that have been laid out for her (she appreciates the thought; she has almost forgotten what warmth felt like in her toes), and takes up her metal staff (it must have been confiscated when she had first stepped out of that rift; it’s a comforting weight in her hand, and she uses her sleeve to buff the green gem at the top). 

When she walks out of the cabin, the crowds of people standing around once again turn to stare at her, but this time, their eyes aren’t filled with fear and loathing. Instead they seem to be almost—in awe? (Perhaps helping to close the Breach has helped her case more than she had expected) 

There are whispers that follow her as she passes, and she frowns as she hears the title “Herald of Andraste” again and again. Had something else come out of a rift? That would be nice, the Herald could go clean up the mess, and she could return to Ostwick and— 

Tell Marcel what little she could remember and write letters to Iluuser and her mother. Yes. 

When she glances up at the sky, she sees that the green storm is no longer swirling in the sky, raining green death down upon them, but there is still an odd green light where it once was. She guesses she didn’t manage to close it all the way. 

(Quite honestly—she’s glad her hand doesn’t hurt as much anymore, still the odd ache, but not the stabbing, gnawing, acidic sensation of before, but that doesn’t mean she likes having it. She doesn’t know what it is, and having weird magic stuck in you wasn’t exactly a great thing. 

If it doesn’t fade away on its own, whenever she gets back to Ostwick, maybe Marcel can look into it, see what it is and how to get rid of it.) 

She avoids the gaze of the chantry sisters who are whispering and staring at her (she hears snatches of Andraste saving her even as she walked out of the Conclave—they can’t be talking about her, that’s absurd), and walks into the chantry, where the chancellor is once again shouting for her to be chained to be taken to Val Royeux. 

Well. It’s nice to see some things haven’t changed. 

Cassandra orders the guards to disregard his order, and then both she and Leliana begin to argue with the chancellor. (She has to say, she’s slightly impressed with the man even if he does want to haul her off and cut off her head. She wouldn’t look so calm with both the Left and Right Hands of the Divine glaring at her). Cassandra tells about voices in the temple, but the chancellor thinks it’s awfully convenient that she just happens to have the mark that would close the Breach. 

“Providence. The Maker sent her to us in our darkest hour,” Cassandra insists, her voice ringing with certainty. 

(She doesn’t know about that, but at least the Seeker thinks she’s innocent. The Maker—she still believes, but surely the Maker could do better than _her._ Herald of Andraste, more like Herald of Disaster.) 

Cassandra slams a thick book on the table and points at it, “You know what this is, Chancellor? A writ from the Divine, granting us the authority to act.” 

The Seeker stands straight and proclaims, “As of this moment, I declare the Inquisition reborn.” 

(The _Inquisition? That_ had been Divine Justinia’s plan? It was true that the world was—well, it was a mess, with the Mage-Templar War raging on. But—enough of a mess to reinstate the Inquisition? That had been formed in the aftermath of the First Blight; they weren’t at that stage yet. Although—with a hole in the Fade ripped open in the sky and the majority of the Chantry leadership dead, she supposes they’re at that point now. Still, the Inquisition. They said that when the trouble was over, the Inquisition had laid down its arms, but really, it had simply turned itself into the Seekers and the Templar Order. Not exactly the greatest example to follow.) 

Cassandra loomed over the chancellor, stabbing her finger at him with every statement she made, “We will close the Breach, we will find those responsible, and we will restore order, with or without your approval.” 

The chancellor storms away and slams the door on the way out (good riddance). 

Leliana shakes her head, staring at the book, “This is the Divine’s directive: rebuild the Inquisition of old. Find those who will stand against chaos,” she sighed, “We aren’t ready. We have no leader, no numbers, and now, no Chantry support.” 

“But we have no choice: we must act now, with you at our side,” Cassandra said, looking at her. 

She starts, staring at the two women. She had thought—well, she had thought that if she managed to not get arrested, she would go home. Home to Ostwick and Marcel and—a tower full of ghosts. But still, home where Marcel would light candles with her and play chess with her and where she could feed and sing to Cleo—here, she will be nothing more than a prop, a fake Herald with a glowing green hand to astound the masses. 

She shakes her head, rubbing her hand, “I want no part in any war; I want to go home.” 

“You are _already_ involved; its mark is upon you,” Cassandra points out. 

Leliana shrugs, “You can go, if you wish,” she says lightly. 

Cassandra cut in, “You should know that while some believe you chosen, many still think you guilty. The Inquisition can only protect you if you are with us.” 

(And so she is stuck here. Grand. With people who for some reason thinks she’s chosen instead of just ending up in the wrong place at the wrong time.) 

Leliana looked at her steadily, “We can also help you, Rasleanne Trevelyan.” 

(So, they know her name now. How much does the Left Hand of the Divine know about her? Has she talked to Iluuser—if she’s written to Iluuser, has she told her that Oscar is—gone? Even if she has, she will still need to write her a letter herself. It is her fault after all that Oscar was even here, and that she did not keep her promise.) 

Cassandra added, “It will not be easy if you stay, but you cannot pretend this has not changed you.” 

(And—that’s true. Beyond the obvious, that there is still a green, glowing mark on her hand that doesn’t seem to want to go away, there’s also the simple fact that she cannot forget that Oscar is no more. And whoever caused it is still out there. The person who caused the explosion, killed so many people, and ripped a hole in the sky, is still walking around under the sky while Oscar will never even get to see the Brecellian woods he had talked about. 

If she can find this person and bring him to justice—then maybe she can stand in front of Iluuser and not break down in pieces in front of her.) 

“Help us fix this, before it’s too late,” Cassandra said, holding out a hand for her to shake. 

She takes a deep breath (Maker help her), and shook Cassandra’s hand firmly. 

Cassandra and Leliana both smiled at her (although, she had to say, the red-head’s smile seemed somewhat terrifying) and Leliana said, “Good. You should meet the other leaders of the Inquisition. I’ll go get them.” 

As Leliana left to go get the others (not even a minute in, and she’s wondering what she’s gotten herself into. Chantry officials were not going to like meeting a mage, especially not one that some people were mistakenly calling the Herald of Andraste), Cassandra nodded at her. 

“You are feeling well?” 

She glanced down at her hand (still glowing green, and still feeling sore), and said dryly, “I’ve been better.” 

“What’s important is that your mark is stable, and so is the Breach,” Cassandra said firmly, “You’ve given us time, and Solas believes a second attempt might succeed—provided the mark has more power.” 

She frowned, “Really? How much power? And how does Solas know these things?” 

Cassandra shrugged, “He appeared sometime after we found you, saying he had seen the explosion, and that he was an expert on the Fade. He said he has spent much time studying it, and all of his ideas have been correct so far. He says it will require the same amount of power used to open the Breach, and that amount of power is not easy to come by.” 

(So. An apostate who is an expert on the Fade. She—she does not have the Chantry’s kneejerk reaction to apostates, which is generally to burn them all, after all, she has made sure that many a weak apprentice became an apostate herself. But it seems a bit strange to her that an apostate would know so much about the Breach and the Fade. Of course, she could just be being a snob. After all, it was said that the legendary Witches of the Kocari Wilds knew many a secret Circle mages didn’t know, and she has heard that Dalish Keepers knew a few tricks as well. Perhaps he was something like that?) 

Leliana came back with a blonde Ferelden man in armor and some kind of feathered pauldron-coat (everyone might sneer at Fereldens and their fur, but Maker, they looked warm at least) and an Antivan woman in a gold and blue silk dress carrying a clipboard (she hadn’t realized that Antiva was already involved in the Divine’s affairs as well, but after all, the Mage-Templar War did affect everyone). 

Cassandra gestured at the man, “May I present Commander Cullen, leader of the Inquisition’s forces.” 

(The name seemed—familiar, but she’s sure she’s never seen him before. That pale Ferelden coloring and blond hair would have stuck out in Ostwick.) 

The commander looked down and shook his head, “Such as they are. We lost many soldiers in the valley, and I fear many more before this is through.” 

Cassandra nodded toward the woman, “And this is Lady Josephine Montilyet, our ambassador and chief diplomat.” 

Lady Josephine Montilyet smiled warmly at her, “I’ve heard much; it’s a pleasure to meet you at last.” 

(She remembered the Montilyet family; they were a noble family in Antiva that had once been influential traders in Orlais. That had been many years ago, but they still counted as a noble house of good standing, and the Trevelyans had deigned to invite them to parties occasionally. Come to think of it, she may have even seen Lady Josephine once before, although she would have been a child at the time.) 

“And of course, you know Sister Leliana,” Cassandra continued, glancing at the hooded woman. 

Leliana flashed a brief smile, “My position here involves a degree of—” 

“She is our spymaster,” Cassandra cut in. 

(She could have guessed that. What position would be better for a former bard and the Left Hand of the Divine?) 

“Yes. Tactfully put, Cassandra,” Leliana said with a roll of her eyes, “Cassandra has informed you of our situation with the Breach, yes? Which means, we must approach the rebel mages for help.” 

Cullen frowned, “And I still disagree. The Templars could serve just as well.” 

She stared at the man. The Templars? Had he not been informed that she was a mage? The Templars were about as likely to help them as Marcel was to suddenly develop an interest in exercising on the training grounds. 

Cassandra sighed, “We need power, Commander. Enough magic poured into that mark—” 

“Might destroy us all,” Cullen cut in, “Templars could suppress the Breach, weaken it so—” 

“Pure speculation” Leliana snapped curtly. 

“ _I_ was a Templar,” Cullen insisted, “I know what they’re capable of.” 

(A _Templar?_ A _Templar_ was in control of the Inquisition’s forces. True, an ex-Templar but—wait. Cullen. A name she has heard before, and he was a former Ferelden Templar. And Varric had mentioned that the commander had come across the Waking Sea with them from Kirkwall. 

This was Cullen, the Templar Iluuser had mentioned and the former Knight-Captain of Kirkwall’s Gallows.) 

She eyes the door out of the room (not actually an option: first of all, they’re all faster than her, and secondly, she has already agreed to see this through and she will, even if she’s terrified, because Oscar would, so, so will she) and edges closer to Cassandra (true, the Seeker probably had no great love for her, but a Seeker, especially one who was the Right Hand of the Divine, could definitely take on an ex-Templar Knight-Captain). So. She’s stuck in a room where the only non-terrifying person is the cheerful noblewoman ambassador who is shorter than her. This just keeps getting better and better. 

“Unfortunately, neither group will even speak to us yet. The Chantry has denounced the Inquisition—and you, specifically,” Josephine said, gesturing at her with her quill. 

“That didn’t take long,” she mutters. 

Cullen groaned, “Shouldn’t they be arguing over who’s going to become the next Divine?” 

(…that was surprising. Or then again, maybe it shouldn’t be. An ex-templar meant that he had disagreed with the Order one way or another and left. Still though. The Knight Captain of the most infamous Circle, the right hand of Knight Commander Meredith; she didn’t trust him any further than she could throw him, and she was no force mage) 

“Some are calling you—a mage—the ‘Herald of Andraste,’” Josephine explained, with another flourish of her quill, “That frightens the Chantry. The remaining clerics have declared it blasphemy, and we, heretics for harboring you.” 

“Chancellor’s Roderick’s doing, no doubt,” Cassandra muttered. 

“It limits our options,” Josephine said sadly, quill drooping down slightly, “Approaching the mages or Templars for help is currently out of the question.” 

“Just how am _I_ the Herald of Andraste?” she cuts in. 

(It’s quite possibly the most ridiculous idea she’s ever heard—and Oscar has—had, so many ridiculous ideas over the years. Her, the Herald of Andraste? Her, Rasleanne Trevelyan, the disgrace of the noble house of Trevelyan, the one whose mistaken tryst had nearly sent Oscar to the Aeonar, the one who had gotten Andi killed, the one who couldn’t keep her promise to the mage Hero of Ferelden? Surely no one could mistake her for the Maker’s chosen.) 

Cassandra raised an eyebrow, “People saw what you did at the Temple, how you stopped the Breach from growing. They have also heard about the woman seen in the rift when we first found you. They believe that was Andraste.” 

(They keep saying there was a woman in the rift, and maybe there was but to think that that was Andraste? Really? It was more likely a trick of the light or— 

Andi. Mages and the Fade were linked. And Andi—it was a long shot, but it made more sense than the Maker’s Bride suddenly taking an interest in her. Andi always looked out for her. Even at the end.) 

Leliana nodded, “Even if we tried to stop that view from spreading—” 

“Which we have not,” Cassandra cut in. 

Leliana glared at Cassandra, “The point is, _everyone_ is talking about you.” 

(And isn’t _that_ a disturbing thought.) 

Cullen smiled at her, “It’s quite the title, isn’t it? How do you feel about it?” 

She eyed the former Knight-Captain warily (is that a trick question? If she says the wrong thing, will he try to throw her in the dungeons?) and said slowly, “It’s….unsettling.” 

Cullen chuckled, “I’m sure the Chantry would agree.” 

(A Templar from Kirkwall shouldn’t be so lighthearted. What is he planning?) 

“Shouldn’t they be worrying about the rift?” she asks, deciding to get out of this slightly heretical conversation while she still can (it’s still a stupid idea though). 

“They think we’ll make it worse,” Cassandra replies with a frown. 

Leliana brings up a chantry cleric named Mother Giselle who wants to speak with her in Redcliffe, and so she agrees to go travel there in a few days when everything is more settled. Josephine has many letters to write, Leliana has scouts to send, and Cullen has troops to oversee, so Cassandra takes her to her new quarters by the healer’s hut and promises to find her some paper and ink (even if she’s not sure what she’s going to write). 

In the end, Cassandra is busy running around training the soldiers and pummeling training dummies into dust, so she ends up getting paper and ink and a quill from Varric, who winks and says that he never knows when an idea will strike. In the days that follow, more people arrive at Haven, and she manages to write a letter to Marcel to tell him that she is fine (but that Oscar is not) and to her mother, telling her that Lachlan is most likely dead, and that she is sorry (and she is). She doesn’t write her name on the envelope when she hands it to one of Leliana’s birds (it’s more likely that it will be read that way). She still hasn’t managed to get used to the way the faithful of Haven stare at her with a mixture of awe and reverence (she tries to just look ahead), and despite the many sleepless night she has spent staring at parchment and trying to find the words, she still hasn’t managed to figure out what to write to Iluuser. 

( _Dear Iluuser_

_Oscar died in the Conclave_

_Dear Iluuser,_

_I could not keep my promise_

_Dear Iluuser,_

_I’m sorry_

_Dear Iluuser,_

_People think I’m the Herald of Andraste, but if I was, wouldn’t Oscar at least be alive?)_

It’s not going well. Maybe a trip around Haven will do her some good (she’ll just try to avoid the faithful; maybe the training grounds. The soldiers will be distracted with drills, and she is fairly certain the commander is busy with organizing them) She leaves her crumpled, ink-stained discarded drafts behind and walks out into the cold, nodding at Solas and Varric when she passes them, and she keeps walking until she reaches the training grounds where Cassandra is slashing at training dummy. 

“How many do you go through in a day?” she asks, tilting her head as the training dummy’s head goes flying away, “I think you need practice dummies made out of silverite.” 

“That would be nice,” Cassandra grunted, setting her sword down and wiping her forehead. 

The Seeker glanced at her, then picked her sword back up again, “Did I do the right thing? What I have set in motion here could destroy everything I hold dear in my whole life. One day they may write about me—a traitor, a madwoman, a fool. And they may be right.” 

“And what would they write about me in that case?” she asks idly, as Cassandra continues to hack at the training dummy. 

“I believe you are innocent,” Cassandra says firmly, “I believe more is going on here than we can see. And I believe no one else here cares to do anything about it. They will stand in the fire and complain that it is hot. But is this the Maker’s will? I can only guess.” 

“So, once everything is settled, and we find this Mother Giselle, then what?” she asks. 

“We deal with the panic, close the Breach, and find those responsible and bring them to justice,” Cassandra replies, between heavy swings at the training dummies, “And then I hope the consequences aren’t too high, but even if they are, I pay them.” 

“You did what you had to do,” she said softly. 

(Despite their less than ideal first meeting, she is growing to like the fierce Right Hand of the Divine. She burns with purpose and determination, and that’s inspiring. Even if Cassandra and Andi are possibly as diametrically opposed as two people could be, she is still reminded of her red-headed friend, never more than when the dark-haired Seeker is pummeling the training dummies. Andi used to smash through training dummies on bad days too) 

Cassandra grimaced, “My trainers always said, ‘Cassandra, you are too brash. You must think before you act.’ I see what must be done, and I do it. I see no point in running around in circles like a dog chasing its tail. But I misjudged you in the beginning, did I not? I thought the answer was before me, clear as day. I cannot afford to be so careless again.” 

She shrugged, “Anyone would have thought I looked suspicious.” 

(She can afford to be generous now; Oscar had already been dead by the time she had stepped out of that rift. If it had been otherwise, if her being imprisoned and questioned had led to Oscar’s death in some way— 

Well, she would be a lot less willing to be the figurehead of this organization.) 

Cassandra looked at her consideringly, “You’ve said you don’t believe you’re chosen. Does that mean you don’t believe in the Maker?” 

She smiles wryly and looks down, “I believe in the Maker; it would be hard for me not to, given my family. But—I am also a mage, and—we tend to have complicated views about the Maker and the Chantry.” 

(She believes, and sometimes she even believes that she is cursed in the eyes of the Maker, and sometimes she doesn’t, but she does know that she isn’t chosen. There is no question about that.) 

Cassandra nods, seemingly satisfied by her answer, “I believe we were put on this road for a reason. And now we must see where it leads us.” 

She nods at Cassandra walks away, intending to perhaps go try to write a letter to Iluuser again, when Commander Cullen catches sight of her and hurries over (damn the man, she had thought she had timed her visit to Cassandra precisely when he had been preoccupied with his officers. She didn’t want to spend any more time in his company than was necessary, especially without Cassandra or Josephine or even Leliana in tow). 

“Ah, Lady Trevelyan,” Cullen said with a smile (surely he’s trying to lull her into a false sense of security; she hasn’t been called _Lady_ Trevelyan since she was twelve), “We’ve received a number of recruits—locals from Haven and some pilgrims. None made _quite_ the entrance you did.” 

“I always try to get everyone’s attention,” she says dryly, eyeing the entrance to Haven proper longingly (so close, yet so far) 

“That you did,” Cullen commented, “You traveled some distance to reach Haven; you’re from the Circle in Ostwick?” 

“Why? Do you think I should still be there?” she snapped, crossing her arms and looking him in the eye. 

The Ferelden man looked taken aback, eyes wide, “ _No_ , I didn’t mean—I am sorry, I suppose with the history between mages and Templars, that question is a bit loaded.” 

(She feels bad; he looks genuinely disappointed, and Iluuser had said he was a good man, and Cassandra obviously trusted him to lead the Inquisition forces—but Iluuser had also been the one to recruit the apostate Anders to the ranks of the Wardens and allow him to run free to Kirkwall, and Cassandra didn’t have that many options when it came to people with experience commanding soldiers. Still, it will be easier for her if the ex-templar perhaps doesn’t realize how little she trusts him. That way if he tries to spring some kind of trap on her, he’ll be underestimating her) 

She grimaces and uncrosses her arms, “No, I’m sorry, it’s just—I’m a bit on edge. I am from Ostwick. And you’re from—around here?” 

Cullen smiled at her in relief as he moved his hand in a see-saw motion, “I am from Ferelden, but I was recruited to the Inquisition in Kirkwall myself. I was there during the mage uprising. I saw firsthand the devastation it caused.” 

(She had heard differing accounts about how the Champion of Kirkwall had fled the city after defending its mages from the Rite of Anullment. Some had said she had fought her way out, others, including _The Tale of the Champion,_ had said that the Knight-Captain, seeing the red lyrium statue his commander had become, had fought at the Champion’s side against the Knight Commander and then had simply let the Champion walk free afterwards. Had he left because he felt guilty about letting her go? Or because he had finally seen the depths of his commander’s madness?) 

He paused to grab a report from one of his passing soldiers then continued, “Cassandra sought a solution. When she offered me a position, I left the Templars to join her cause. Now it seems we face something far worse.” 

“So it seems,” she agreed. 

(Although, at least demons were a straightforward problem. Dealing with Templars and mages—she wasn’t sure how the Inquisition was supposed to help there) 

“Which is why we’re needed,” Cullen said, his voice rising with genuine fervor, “The Chantry lost control of both Templars and mages. Now they argue over a new Divine while the Breach remains. The Inquisition can act while the Chantry cannot. Our followers could be a part of that. There’s so much we can—forgive me, I doubt you came here for a lecture.” 

She shrugs and smiles at him (pretend that she isn’t terrified of him and maybe eventually she won’t be), “I don’t mind.” 

“Look around, our people are committed and enthusiastic,” he said, gesturing at the soldiers drilling around them, “Despite what the clerics think, we are in the best position to help. There’s still a lot of work ahead.” 

A soldier came running up to them, “Commander! Ser Rylen has a report on our supply lines!” 

Cullen smiled wryly as he walked away, “As I was saying.” 

She hopes that will be the last she sees of him for a while (he seems busy, and soon she’ll be off to Redcliffe, so it should work out) and wanders off to go see if Varric has more stories about Hawke (it’s almost a given that he does; he tells about the time that Fenris had to pretend to be Hawke’s manservant and had gotten back at her by hiding her dress, and Hawke had scrounged up a nobleman’s outfit and walked haughtily into the Orlesian party anyway, and the time that Hawke had battled bandits on the Wounded Coast while yelling out encouragement and pick-up lines for Guard-Captain Aveline to use, and the time that Hawke had arrived to a Hightown noble soiree with their entire bedraggled group in tow, Fenris glowering in his spiky armor, Isabela adamantly refusing to wear pants, Anders still glowing blue from his last shift in his clinic, Merrill happily twirling around, Aveline still in blood-stained armor from her last patrol, Sebastian buffed up until he practically shined, and when the nobles protested, Hawke innocently saying, “Did it say +1? It looked like a 7 to me.” She laughs and wishes that Oscar was here to hear the stories of his famous cousin) 

The stories are good, and they help the hours pass by, but they do not help at night when sleep seems like a hazy foreign country she just can’t seem to reach, and the mark on her hand casts eerily green shapes at the ceiling (she’s tried wearing gloves, but it feels weird to wear them to bed), and every time she closes her eyes, she sees the twisted bodies at the Temple, and sometimes she sees Oscar’s face among them, or sometimes she sees curly red hair. She goes to the Chantry because maybe lighting a candle for Oscar will help (it didn’t for Andi, not really. They lit the candle and told stories about her, but there was pain in Oscar’s voice every time he laughed, and Marcel could barely talk above a whisper, and she couldn’t stop crying, even when she was laughing at some of the stories). There is no one to tell stories of Oscar to (and how many stories does she have), but maybe that will force her to finally write that letter to Iluuser (has she heard what has happened yet?). 

She is rolling the candle between her hands, tracing Oscar’s name on its side with her knife (even more than her staff, she’s glad she has it back), when she hears a clatter of scrolls, and looks up to see Cullen bending down to try and retrieve some of the scrolls he dropped. 

“Lady Trevelyan, excuse me,” he said apologetically, placing the scrolls back on top of the pile he was carrying, “I’m sorry for disturbing your prayers—” 

“It’s not _Lady_ Trevelyan,” she cut in, tired of hearing it (bad enough from the servants, let alone one of her advisors, and here of all places, with her head fuzzy from lack of sleep and Oscar’s candle in her hand), “ _Lady_ Trevelyan is my mother.” 

Cullen nodded, “My apologies…Herald?” 

She let out a bark of laughter at that title, shaking her head (there was a time when she would have loved to have a title, something to at least prove she was more than the blight upon the Trevelyan family, but not like this. Not with Oscar and Andi both gone, and Marcel an ocean away). 

“Not that either, I take it,” he said carefully, glancing at the candle and knife in her hand. 

“Rasleanne is fine,” she said tiredly, finishing tracing out the “r” in Oscar’s name, and snapping her fingers to light it, “Technically it’s Enchanter Rasleanne, but the circles are gone, so—it doesn’t matter now.” 

“Rasleanne,” Cullen repeated, looking at the candle she set on the altar, “I’ll remember. Did you—did someone travel with you, to the Conclave?” 

She nodded, “Yes. The First Enchanter thought both of us should go—me to talk, Oscar to intimidate. He liked the voyage; we had never traveled beyond the Free Marches before, and he needed to get out of the Circle anyway, it was never the same after the rebellion and Andi—but you don’t want to hear this.” 

“No, go on,” Cullen said gently, setting his pile of reports down on a nearby table, “He was—close to you?” 

She hesitated (why would a Templar care about a dead mage?), but she needs someone to talk to about him (and Marcel is not here), so her stories about Oscar pour out of her, her first sight of him, gangly and messy and laughing from a successful prank, his grin as he had introduced her to his friends, the way his mouth would turn into a cat-like grin as he dangled salted caramels above her head to make her go to class, how he had trained her to fight even though she was terrible with a knife, his laughter as he roped her into his never-ending prank wars, how he had found a patch of the gardens for her to call her own, the seriousness of his voice as he told her to take pride in her magic, how she had learned to knock before entering any vaguely private location to avoid seeing Oscar and Andi tangled up in each other, Oscar begging her for flowers to give to Andi, Oscar solemnly teaching the apprentices how to make dungbombs, Oscar defending her through all the years, and how even though he was never the same after Andi’s death, still he tried to help rebuild and make sure she and Marcel were eating and healthy. 

(All these stories spill out of her mouth, but still she avoids the stories involving Oscar and his famous sister; better to keep one ace up her sleeve) 

She expects him to turn away, or at the very least, as the candle burns down, to yawn and tell her that it’s late, but Cullen simply pulls up a chair and listens, eyes steady on her face as she talks on and on. 

“I am sorry,” he says, as she trails off from telling how Oscar had been actually kind of excited to see the Temple of Sacred Ashes, and how she can’t even remember how he died, and he actually looks like he means it, mouth turned down, and face serious, “I’m sure he is at the Maker’s side now; I would have liked to meet him.” 

She snorts a little at that (Oscar would have probably slapped the former Knight-Captain of Kirkwall with a lightning cage as soon as he was introduced), “I keep expecting to turn around and see him—and sometimes I even think I see him in the corner of my eye, but it’s not him. It’s never going to be, not anymore,” she says, her throat dry from talking so much 

“I know the feeling,” Cullen said softly, rubbing his hands together and looking down. 

“Does it ever go away?” she asks. 

His mouth twists into half a grimace, half a smile, “I ran across an entire ocean to escape one set of ghosts, and now I’ve crossed it again to get away from Kirkwall. Perhaps I’m not the best person to ask—here,” he digs into his pocket and proffers her a white handkerchief. 

She frowns and touches her face, and she is horrified to find tears running down her cheek (you can’t show weakness in front of Templars, they’ll take advantage of it, Andi had hissed at her), but still, she takes his handkerchief and swipes it across her face angrily. 

“I saw my brother—my actual brother at the Conclave. Lachlan was a Templar—I hadn’t seen him in over ten years—still, we were close once, and yet, I barely mourn him. Isn’t that terrible?” she asks with a bitter smile (let’s see what he says to that). 

“Oscar was more like your brother though, wasn’t he?” Cullen commented, still steadily looking at her, “He was there for you for all those years, while Lachlan had become basically a stranger to you.” 

She twists his handkerchief in her hands, “And I don’t know what to write to—anyone. About Oscar.” 

“Your friends will want to know,” Cullen says reasonably, “I—I am not good at writing letters to people, my sister would be the first to tell you, but just tell them. They will know your grief.” 

She slowly nods (not only is a Templar comforting her she’s taking advice from a Templar; Andi’s ashes are probably turning in the wind). Looking down at her hands, she hastily uncrumples the handkerchief, “Oh, it’s—I’ll wash it, and give it back to you.” 

Cullen waves her off, “Keep it, I have others.” 

She doesn’t want to (keep a _Templar’s_ handkerchief?), but it would be rude to refuse, especially after he spent so long listening to her talk, so she nods and pockets it, standing up, “Good night, Commander.” 

“Good night Rasleanne,” he replies softly. 

(He’s not—what she would expect from a Templar of Kirkwall’s Gallows. But that doesn’t mean she can let her guard down. More than it’s already been let down. She needs to be careful—her place here is still unclear. But—she will write a letter to Iluuser, and tell her of her brother’s death. That advice she can take. Everything else—she’ll wash the handkerchief and slip it back into his quarters, and that will be that. They can forget about all this.) 


	15. Amell: The Fade

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another hard chapter to write

She opens her eyes, and she is in a fortress she’s never seen before, and Duncan is standing before her. She frowns as he greets her and tells her that the Blight is over and that they are in Weisshaupt, where the Wardens have decided to retire and study. That is…lovely, but something is not right. Isn’t Duncan dead? Did the Wardens not fall at Ostagar? And hadn’t she been…somewhere else earlier? Weisshaupt is all the way in the Anderfels, but the last thing she remembers is…

(Blood, blood everywhere, bodies scattered across familiar halls, faces that she had seen alive and well not too long ago, and frantically searching for Alissa, Elaine, and Cullen. And a demon…)

She voices her concerns to Duncan (or the thing that looks like Duncan, she remembers Alistair’s grief), but he laughs. When she insists that she wants to leave (she has to figure out where she is, what is going on, where everyone else is), Duncan frowns, and suddenly two other wardens spring out, and they all attack her. She hits them with her staff and sends sharp ice walls straight at their bellies, and when the icicles hit, they turn into demons (so this is the Fade. Again.). She finishes them off by freezing them and shattering them with her staff, and then the pedestal in the center of the chamber glows, and she touches it, and now she’s in some kind of weird woods. 

(She remembers this place, hazy like a fairytale dream. This is around where she was for her Harrowing)

Niall is there, surprised at her appearance, and extremely doubtful of their chances. He points out that he’s been stuck here so long he doesn’t even know how long he’s been there (time moves fluidly in the Fade; more the reason to get out as quickly as possible), and everything is hopeless, and the Sloth demon will use their lives to fuel this dream and make sure no one will escape. She doesn’t believe him (can’t believe him), and wanders off. There in the woods is a rage demon attacking a mouse (Mouse from her Harrowing? But no, this mouse is nearly dead by the time she runs over, and while she would not put it past him to fake weakness, but this mouse gasps and whispers the secrets of its form to her right before it fades into nothingness), and as she turns into a mouse to investigate other portals, there are more rage demons to fight. Touching the pedestal by Niall sends her to some place overrun by darkspawn (something from the past, a glimpse of the present, or a flash of the future, or all three?), and she fights her way through the horde, staff spinning with ice and lightning, until she sees a ghostly Templar trying to fight off five darkspawn at once. She doesn’t know if he’s just an echo or a spirit or another who is trapped, but she quickly blasts the darkspawn with lightning, and the Templar (dark of hair, and she doesn’t recognize him, so maybe a spirit?) thanks her and tells her the words to use to get through spirit portals (it’s like a fairytale all over again). 

She speaks the words and passes through a spirit door, and it looks like she’s once again in the false Weisshaupt, except this time Amdir is in front of her, arguing with Duncan. 

Amdir pauses when he sees her walk in and turns to her, “Oh thank the Maker you’re here. Back me up, Amell, Duncan died. He and all the other wardens died at Ostagar, and I spent the days between when I woke up and when you did making sure Alistair didn’t attempt to follow them.”

“Yes,” she nods, twirling her staff around and backhanding the false Duncan with it, “Did he tell you the Blight was over, and now we just sit around and sing songs of our valor?”

“Wait, did this already happen to you?” Amdir demanded, slicing through the other false wardens. 

She nods again and sighs, placing her staff back on her back, “So unimaginative.”

Amdir grunted wiping his daggers off on the false wardens, “So, where are we?”

“The Fade,” she replies, gesturing as the fortress becomes much hazier. 

Amdir’s eyebrows climb up his forehead, “The _Fade?_ Well, that’s new. Next we’ll see the Black City. So, what now?”

She tells him the words to turn into a mouse and the words to go through a spirit door (weirdly enough, they work for him, maybe because this is the Fade, and belief makes anything real). Touching the pedestal takes them back to the forest that Niall is in, and they manage to defeat the desire demon at the center of the forest. Touching the pedestal there takes them to some nightmarish vision of her Tower on fire, filled with all manner of creatures on fire. There’s another Templar (without curly hair, and she has to believe that he still lives, somehow) that they manage to save from demons, and who teaches them the words to turn themselves into burning skeletons to pass through the flame barriers. She shudders when she sees Tabris’ burned off face, and Tabris crossly points out that she doesn’t look that much better. They pass through the nightmare as quickly as they can and pass through another spirit door, leading to a patch of forest where they see Alistair next to a dark-blonde haired woman and a gaggle of children. 

“Hey, it’s great to see you guys again!” Alistair says with a wide smile when they walk towards him, “I was just thinking of you two; isn’t that a marvelous coincidence?”

He waves toward the smiling woman, “This is my sister Goldanna, and these are her children, and there’s more about…somewhere,” he chuckles, “We’re one big happy family, at long last.”

Amdir glanced around and let out a huff of breath, “Seriously? I get a copy—and mind you, not even that good of a copy, of the thing that demon stuck you in, and Alistair here gets his family? _I_ would have liked to see my family.”

(And she would have liked to see hers as well. Maybe it’s for the best that the sloth demon was so unimaginative)

“I’ve never been happier,” Alistair continued blithely, seeming to have not heard Amdir. 

The woman’s smile grew wider, “I’m overjoyed to have my little brother back. I’ll never let him out of my sight again.”

“Alistair,” she said slowly, moving closer toward him, “Does something about this seem…odd to you?”

Alistair’s brow furrowed but then cleared as Goldanna touched his shoulder, “Well I was wondering when you guys would get here, but you’re here, so that’s great!”

“Well, Alistair, is your friend staying for supper?” the false Goldanna asked, her voice sickly sweet. 

Alistair’s eyes took on a pleading look (oh Maker, it was the puppy eyes), “Oh, say you’ll staaay! Goldanna’s a great cook! Maybe she’ll make her mince pie. You can, can’t you?”

The false Goldanna nodded, “Of course dear brother. Anything for you.”

“We can’t stay, and neither can you,” Amdir cut in, glaring at the false Goldanna and children running around. 

“You guys are acting really strangely,” Alistair complained. 

“Think about this, and how you got here,” she urged, carefully nudging him away from the woman, “Think about this carefully.”

“Al _right_ , if it makes you happy,” Alistair said with a frown, “I—it’s a little fuzzy. That’s strange.”

“Alistair, come and have some tea,” the false Goldanna said, her voice with an undercurrent of urgency. 

Alistair held up a hand, “No, wait. I—remember a…tower—the Circle. It was under attack. There were demons. That’s all I really remember.”

“The sloth demon, do you remember that?” she prompted, slipping her staff into her hand. 

Alistair’s face fell as he looked around, “Are you saying this is a _dream_? But it’s so real.”

“Of course it’s real!” the false Goldanna shouted, “Now wash up before supper, and I—”

“Something doesn’t feel quite right here,” Alistair said firmly, turning to his false sister, “I think I have to go.”

“Come with us,” she said, holding out her hand to him. 

“No, he is ours!” the false Goldanna proclaimed, her voice getting deeper and features growing more and more demonic, “And I’d rather see him dead than gone!”

The woman and children turn into demons, and Alistair manages to shake off his shock to join them in the fight, and she never thought she’d be so happy to see a Templar cleanse an area before. The demons are finished off relatively quickly, and Alistair is left standing there, limply holding his sword and shield. 

“Goldanna? I can’t believe it. How did I not see this earlier?” he asked, shaking his head. 

“The Fade is a strange place,” she said softly. 

“Yes, well, try not to tell everyone else how easily fooled I was,” he said with a wince and a wry grin. 

“If I had had an actual vision of my family instead of a copy of Iluuser’s dream, I might have been caught too,” Amdir replied. 

“A copy?” Alistair asked, puzzled. 

Amdir complained and explained the entire way as they touched the pedestal and landed in yet another vision of the tower overrun by demons (not far from the truth) and golems for some reason. They fight their way through and save a mage (it looks like Rial; he had always been poking at rocks and crystals in the Circle) who tells them the words to turn themselves into a golem, and then they smash their way to the center where they defeat a hunger demon and touch another pedestal (how many of these things are there).

It’s the woods again, except now there’s Barkspawn, who looks up as soon as they walk over, wags his tail, barks happily, and joins them. 

“Who’s a good dog, _you are_ ,” she coos, kneeling down to pat Barkspawn, who happily drools all over her hand. 

“Glad to see some things are constant,” Alistair commented, also petting Barkspawn a bit. 

“And glad to see we’re in the hands of a sloth demon who’s so lazy that he can’t even craft a vision to keep a _dog_ in,” Amdir muttered, grabbing a stick at the side and giving it to Barkspawn to gnaw on. 

“Well, he _is_ a mabari,” she said, giving Barkspawn one last pat and standing up, “Let’s find the others and get out of here.”

And so they pass through some of the same nightmares again, battling all sorts of demons and wispy dreamers, but for some reason, the rest of their companions they find trapped in nightmares disappear after the demon is defeated (she has to say, she was somewhat disturbed by Morrigan’s. The fact that Morrigan hadn’t believed the false Flemeth at all simply because the demon had tried to be kind? That did not imply good things about Morrigan’s own childhood. She is almost sorry to break Sten out of his vision; he had found himself with the soldiers he called family, but they have a mission, so she calls on his promise to join them), but they all reappear when they reach a field full of lyrium veins and the sloth demon itself, with Morrigan and Sten looking distinctly irritated (Sten must be really angry if he’s making an expression)

“What do we have here? Rebellious minions? Escaped slaves?” the demon threw back its head and laughed, “My, my, but you do have some _gall_. But playtime is over; you all have to go back now.”

Sten drew out his sword, “Let us end this. I have had enough of cages.”

“You made a dangerous enemy, demon, by toying with my mind,” Morrigan said with an edged voice, her hands already beginning to spark with lightning. 

(Perhaps her nightmare of Flemeth hit closer than she had expected)

“If you go back quietly, I’ll do better this time. I’ll make you much happier,” the demon purred, staring at them. 

“Sorry, you blew it,” Amdir replied, taking out his knives.

“Hate to see what you would come up with next,” she added, letting her staff flare with light (and she really would. They’ve lost enough time here)

“Can’t you think about someone other than yourself? I’m hurt. So very, very hurt,” the demon drawled, and then seemed to loom larger, “You wish to battle me? So be it. You will learn to bow to your betters, mortal.”

It is a hard battle, harder than the others in the Fade, with the demon constantly changing form (wasn’t he a sloth demon? But maybe if he was sufficiently motivated, other things came out to play), one second a rage demon, the next, a looming pride demon throwing spells, but they manage to take it down, Alistair blazing with a templar’s light, Barkspawn lunging and biting, Wynne healing and throwing stonefists at the demon, Morrigan throwing lightning while as a giant spider (she hadn’t even known she could do that, but belief makes reality here in the Fade), Amdir a cutting flash here and there, Leliana’s arrows striking true, Sten slamming down his sword with a force that looks punishing, and herself bringing up ice walls and calling down storms and blizzards. 

The demon falls, and Niall appears and thanks them. She tells him to come back with them and help them fight, but he says he has been here too long and his body has wasted away (weeks while she was journeying with everyone and somewhat looking forward to coming home), and urges them to use the Litany of Adralla to kill Uldred. She promises they will and tells him that he will be remembered, and then she wakes up on the sticky (bloody) floor. Niall’s body lies near them, and she gently takes the scroll from his hand and closes his eyes (there will be time for a proper burial later).

The stairs to the Harrowing Chamber are long and foreboding (although not especially familiar; no one really remembers being spirited up to the chamber), and they fight a drake and manage to find a cache of lyrium potions to consume before they reach a shimmering barrier, behind which a blonde Templar is kneeling and praying. 

Cullen. Cullen, here and Maker be praised, _alive._

She’s running forward before she even thinks about it, nearly tripping in her haste to get to him (he’s alive, he’s alive, he’s _alive)._

“Cullen,” she says, kneeling by the barrier in front of him. 

He looks up (his skin looks sallow, his cheeks sunken, and his eyes…they hold a jittery mixture of weariness, anger, and fear) and groans, “This trick again? I know what you are; it won’t work. I will stay… strong,” he says, shuddering on the last word. 

(Something isn’t right here. Tricks? Had they pretended to be her?)

“It’s me, Cullen,” she says quietly, touching the barrier, “Don’t you remember me?”

“Only too well,” he bitterly laughs, “How far they must have delved into my _thoughts_ …”

Wynne shook her head, “The boy is exhausted. And this cage…I’ve never seen anything like it. Rest easy, help is here.”

“Enough visions!” Cullen barked out, glaring at them, “If anything in you is human…kill me now and stop this _game_ ,” he cried, rocking back and forth, “You broke the others, but I will stay strong for my sake…for theirs.”

(The others—Cullen is the only one she sees in the barrier, but they had more than enough time to have broken and killed other Templars in the weeks since Ostagar. Old Knight Captain Rielien who liked to sew stuffed animals for the child apprentices, Ser Petyr who had played songs on his harmonica into the night, Ser Evelyn who bemoaned the lack of fashion in the Circle, she had not seen any of them downstairs with the Knight Commander or with the possessed or dead. Is this where they had met their end? Had Cullen watched them come undone?)

“Sifting through my thoughts…tempting me with the one thing I always wanted but could never—have. Using my shame against me, my ill-advised infatuation with her—a _mage_ of all things,” he sobbed, “I am so tired of these cruel jokes…these _tricks_ …these…”

(What had they done to him?)

She ignored the stares of her companions (it’s not so strange or uncommon, Templars and mages. Amdir already knew, Morrigan may think a bit less of her, but right now she doesn’t care what Morrigan thinks, Wynne is a Circle mage and is rumored to have had a child by a Templar, Leliana is a minstrel and probably thinks it’s romantic even if she’s a chantry sister, Sten could probably care less, Barkspawn adores her, and Alistair—well, Alistair, she can deal with later), looking Cullen in the eye and repeating, “Cullen, I’m real. I’m _here_ , this isn’t a trick.”

(Please come back to me; please be something that Uldred hasn’t destroyed as well)

“Silence!” he yelled, standing up, “I’ll not listen to anything you say. Now begone!”

She stands up as well, hands hanging at her side helplessly while Amdir narrows his eyes while twirling a knife in his hand. 

(She doesn’t know what to do)

Cullen stared at them, “Still here? But that’s always worked before—I close my eyes—but you are still here when I open them,” he said frantically.

“I am _real,”_ she insists (please make him remember),“I am no illusion. I am the mage who accidentally froze you on your first day here, the one who you gave Brother Genitivi’s travelogue to, the one whose Harrowing you were tasked with.”

(The one that you cared for, the one that cared about you, the one that had hoped…)

“I am beyond caring what you think! The Maker knows my sin, and I pray that he will forgive me,” he sneered at her. 

“Sin?” she repeats, tightening her hand around her staff (He was staring at her in disgust, and she had never seen that look before, not from him). 

“It was the foolish fancy of a naïve _boy_ ,” he spat, “I know better now. Why have you returned to the tower? How did you survive?”

(There is a hollow, twisting feeling in her stomach, but she pushes it away. There is still Uldred. There is still Uldred, and he will _pay._ Him first, and then Loghain, for permitting this. Everyone who let this happen, who has ruined all that she once held dear, they will _suffer)_

“How could I not return to my home?” she asks, frost growing from her hand to cover her staff. 

“As it was mine. And look what they’ve done with it! They deserve to die, Uldred most of all,” he says, eyes darkening into what she thought was likely a mirror of her own, “They caged us like animals…looked for ways to break us. I’m the only one left…”

“Be proud,” Sten said sternly, “You mastered yourself.”

“Be _proud_?” Cullen repeated incredulously, “What is there to be proud of? That I lived, and they _died_? They turned some into…monsters. And…there was nothing I could do.”

“Uldred will pay,” she said to him, as the ice beneath her feet grew as sharp as knives, and the temperature around them plummeted, “I promise you, I will make him _pay and pay.”_

Cullen snorted, looking at her darkly, “And to think, I once thought we were too hard on you.”

She shook her head, “I am not the enemy here, Cullen. We are not all the enemy.”

(They’re _not)_

“Only mages have that much power at their fingertips,” Cullen insisted, mouth twisted into a grimace, “Only mages are so susceptible to the infernal whisperings of demons—”

“This is a discussion for another time!” Wynne cut in, “Irving and the other mages who fought Uldred. Where are they?”

“They are in the Harrowing Chamber,” Cullen replied, drawing a hand over his face, “The _sounds_ coming out from there—oh, _Maker.”_

Wynne turned to her, “We must hurry. They are in grave danger, I am sure of it.”

“You can’t save them! You don’t know what they’ve _become_ ,” Cullen said, drawing closer to where she was standing in front of the barrier. 

“Because they are mages?” she asked sharply, “I am a mage too, in case you’ve forgotten.”

(Small chance of that, blood spattered across her robes, and ice and frost creeping all along her skin like vines)

“But you haven’t been up there! You haven’t been under their influence!” Cullen shouted, “They’ve been surrounded by blood mages whose wicked fingers snake into your mind and corrupt your _thoughts_.”

“His hatred of mages is so intense…the memory of his friends’ deaths is still fresh in his mind,” Alistair said quietly by her side, as she looked down and her nails dug into her palm. 

“You have to end it _now,_ before it’s too late!” Cullen argued, staring at her in desperation.

“Irving is up there, isn’t he?” she asked, looking up at him, “And Alissa and Elaine?”

(This is the last place left, unless they were in that disgusting blobby mass of flesh that covered the walls—

But she refuses to believe that. They could still be up there. She still might be able to save them, like she hadn’t been able to save the others. 

And hopefully, they would be better off than Cullen)

Cullen glared at her, “That isn’t the point—”

“I am saving everyone that can possibly be saved,” she interrupted, looking him directly in the eye. 

“Are you really saving anyone by taking this risk?” Cullen asked angrily, “To ensure this horror is ended—to guarantee no abominations or blood mages live, you must kill _everyone_ up there”

She shook her head (the Cullen she knew would never have said that, could never have said that), “I can’t do that,” she said sadly. 

Wynne let out a sigh, “Thank you, I knew you would make the rational decision.”

“Rational? How is this _rational?_ Do you understand the danger?” Cullen demanded. 

Wynne crossed her arms, “I know full well the dangers of magic, but killing innocents because they might be maleficarum is not justice. I know you are angry—”

“You know nothing!” Cullen burst out, “I am thinking about the future of the Circle, of Ferelden—”

“What kind of future is there if I kill mages with no proof or cause? What is to stop all of you from doing the same again later?” she cried out, willing herself to not throw any ice spells at him (that was the absolute last thing he needed, but she was so _angry._ He was telling to her slaughter her remaining family. Cullen, the boy she had smiled at and shared books with, was telling her to kill every last person in the tower simply for the sin of being a mage. She had thought the mix of fury and despair at Jowan’s betrayal was the lowest she could ever go, but she is plumbing new depths with every hour of this nightmare)

“I am just willing to see the painful truth, which _you_ are content to ignore. But what can I do?” Cullen asked sarcastically, gesturing at the barrier. 

Sten turned to her, “What he says makes sense. Do not discard it out of hand…these mages are out of control.

“Sten, we took you from a dream with your brothers in arms that you were loath to leave. These are my brothers and sisters. If you expect me to kill them when they can still be saved, either stand down or draw your sword here and now,” she replied, not even bothering to look at him. 

Sten paused and bowed his head in assent, and Cullen shook his head, “As you can see, I am in no position to directly influence your actions, though I would love to deal with the mages myself.”

“We will free you when we get back,” she replied (letting him loose now would be a disaster. He would kill any mage he could get his hands on, and she isn’t sure he wouldn’t stop at just them. She has been in this Tower awhile too and in the thrall of a sloth demon.)

“Don’t waste time on me, deal with Uldred, if that’s what you plan to do. Once he is dead, I will be freed,” Cullen replied, pointing at the looming door of the Harrowing Chamber. 

“Stay safe,” she says, placing a hand against the barrier before drawing away. 

(And please somehow be better by the time I get back. Please don’t see me as a nightmare come to life anymore)

“No one ever listens; not until it’s far too late. Maker turn his gaze on you. I hope your compassion hasn’t doomed us all,” he said seriously. 

(It won’t then, but she remembers his words later on, when she hears about Anders and Kirkwall. For family, she will fight a bloody swathe through those that would threaten them, but even after all her years leading the Ferelden Wardens and governing Amaranthine, she doesn’t know how to deal with betrayal from within her own, except to stand there, lost and cold as the day Jowan revealed himself as a blood mage)

Inside those ominous doors, a lightning storm rages, with Chaka (he had always complained about their robes being too hot during the summer, and she had often cast frost spells onto his robes) spasming in the center, abominations all around him, and Uldred (he still looks the same as she remembers, ill-tempered with nasty glances, and how is that _possible?_ Shouldn’t there be some mark, some stain to show everyone what this man has _done?)_ leading them all. There are mages huddled in the corner, and one of them has matted brown hair and pointed ears (Alissa?), and one of them grey-haired and bearded (Irving?)

The storm abates, and Chaka slumps to the ground. Uldred lifts his face up to him by the chin and asks, “Do you accept the gift that I offer?”

Chaka nods, and they move towards him, and there is a surge of magic, and he is screaming and _twisting,_ until at last he looks up, and she no longer recognizes the ruin of his face or the grotesque bubbles of flesh that poke out from his robes. 

( _Abomination,_ and she has never truly understood that word until today) 

Uldred turns to look at them, and his mouth twists into a mockery of a smile, “Ah, look what we have here. I remember you: Irving’s star pupil. Uldred didn’t think much of you then, and I certainly don’t see the appeal now.”

“Funny, I don’t think you’re much of an improvement,” she replies tightly, her grip on her staff so tight she can feel the imprint of the carved runes on her palm. 

(One of the abominations has a silver locket around his neck, old and engraved with vines. That’s Elaine’s locket, the last memento she has of her charmed life in Highever. She had given it to Roger, a token she had never given to anyone else. And Elaine would have fought until her last breath to keep Roger from being turned into an abomination. 

She doesn’t even remember her last words to her before she got recruited into the Wardens.) 

Uldred made a noise of disgust, “Well, I suppose one can’t be loved universally. I’m quite impressed you’re still alive. Unfortunately, that must mean you killed my servants,” he sighed, “Ah well, they are probably better off dying in the service of their betters than living with the terrible responsibility of independence.”

“Did you even know their names before you turned them?” she asks, the Harrowing chamber starting to freeze over, with every shard of ice pointed at Uldred. 

(She will see him _dead_ if she has to tear out his heart with her bare hands)

“Does it matter? I’m freeing them in the process,” he said with a smug smile, “A mage is but the larval form of something greater. Your _Chantry_ vilifies us, calls us abominations, when we have truly reached our _full_ potential.”

He gestured at the huddled mages in the corner, “Look at them! The Chantry has them convinced. They _deny_ themselves the pleasure of becoming something _glorious_.”

“You’re _mad,”_ Wynne cut in, “There’s nothing glorious about what you’ve become, Uldred!”

He laughed, “ _Uldred_? He is _gone._ I am Uldred, and yet not Uldred. I am _more_ than he was. I could give you this gift, Wynne. You and all the mages. It would be so much easier if you just _accepted_ it, but some people can be _so_ stubborn.”

“You are nothing but a puppet of meat dancing on strings, and they all knew it,” she says, breathing in and letting her mana flow to her staff and prime every single rune on it (and wasn’t it fitting, part of Jowan’s work taking down the one who led him down the wrong path). 

“And what good did resistance do? I still _won,”_ he said with relish, “Wait, what do we have _here?”_

He grabbed the grey haired mage in the corner and shoved him forward, “It’s the First Enchanter. _Come_ , say hello to your old apprentice, Irving,” he chuckled as Irving panted for breath, “Don’t mind the blood; he’s had a _hard_ day.”

Bloodied and battered, the First Enchanter has a black eye and bruises across his face, and from the way he was crouching and the stains on his robe, it looked as though something was wrong with his leg, or his side, or both. But the look in his eyes is still defiant, and he spits at the ground by Uldred’s feet. 

Wynne gasped, “What have you done to him?”

“ _Stop_ him,” Irving gasped between ragged breaths, “He is building an army…he will destroy—the Templars, and—”

“You’re a _sly_ little fox, Irving,” the thing wearing Uldred’s skin simpered, “Telling on _me,_ like that. And here I thought he was starting to turn.”

“ _Never,”_ Irving rasped out, glaring at the abomination.

“That’s enough out of you, Irving,” Uldred’s abomination said, kicking Irving back into the corner, “He’ll serve me _eventually_ , as will _you.”_

“You must be dreaming,” she said steadily as the ice on her skin grew thicker, and from the corner of her eye, she could see Amdir tossing an open cold salve over to Alistair who caught it and hurridly began slathering it over his hands and face. 

“Oh, I’m not _stupid_! Do you think I’m just going to let you wander around this Tower, knowing you’re a pawn of the _Templars. You_ are a thorn in my side, and I must remove you before you fester,” Uldred’s abomination said with a toss of his head. 

She felt a slash of a smile grow across her face, “You may find that harder than you would believe.”

“Killing you would be a waste. Your raw potential, with the strength of a _demon_ behind it would be _unstoppable. I_ can do that. _I_ can give you power and a _new_ life,” the abomination said, his voice dropping lower and hands flaring with magic. 

“I’m going to break you into as many pieces as there are dead mages and Templars in this Tower,” she said simply, taking the Litany of Ardalla out of her robes and unrolling it. 

“I don’t think your opinion matters. That is what I’ve decided, and that is what will be _done._ _Fight,_ if you must. It will just make my victory all the _sweeter,”_ Uldred said, pointing at them as his abominations descended upon them. 

She slams her staff into the ground, making an ice wall form in jagged spikes right where the abominations are charging and begins to chant out the Litany. The abominations writhe and stop in their tracks at the words, and Amdir takes the opportunity to vault off the ice wall and begin slashing his way through while Alistair charges in, shield raised, sword out, and Templar cleansing abilities in full effect, trying to hack his way to Uldred at the center. Morrigan rapidly shifts between chomping down abominations as a giant spider and reverting back into her original form to blast them with lightning, Wynne casts healing and lifeward spells over all of them, Sten is a stalwart soldier, relentlessly advancing past the abominations with heavy swings of his sword, and Leliana runs and leaps from corner to statue with her arrows. Barkspawn stays near her side, growling and tearing out the throats of those who draw near them. The abominations begin to fall back, and even more of them stay down once the blizzard she has been summoning storms into life in the chambers around them, winds howling, snow feeling like shards of glass when it brushes past her face and freezing the abominations in front of her to ice statues (and she feels barely a glimmer of remorse when she slams her staff into the thing that used to be Roger, shattering it into a thousand pieces and catching the locket with left hand. Roger is long gone, and she is just putting the barest scraps of what he was to rest). 

Seeing his herd of abominations thinning, Uldred snarls and strides toward the group of bloodied mages in the corner. When he reaches for Alissa (and it _is_ Alissa, she sees the tell-tale braids in her hair, even if they are tangled and disarrayed), she _screams_ out the Litany and sweeps her staff in front of her, pushing another ice wall forward to get rid of the abominations in her path (she has already lost Elaine, she may have lost the Cullen she remembers, and she will be damned if she loses Alissa as well to this wretched man). With one last blast of ice from her hand and the crunch of her staff shattering another abomination (she doesn’t even know who this one was), she’s at Alistair’s side, in front of Uldred. Uldred (looking more monstrous than before, his eyes a strange yellow color, and his face is beginning to look somewhat spiky) tries to call down a lightning storm, but Alistair hits him with a holy smite, and while he is reeling from that, she grabs him by the throat.

“ _Die,_ ” she snarls, as she freezes him from the inside out, making sure to start with his eyes, and saving the heart for last. 

When he has stopped trying to twist away, when his pulse is the barest flutter beneath her fingers, she lets go and bashes him with her staff, once, twice, thrice (Jowan, Elaine, Cullen), and grinds her heel into the remains (and for everyone else). 

The last of the abominations have fallen, and Uldred lies as pulverized dust at her feet, and yet she feels no satisfaction, Elaine’s locket a heavy weight in her hand, the stone floor and her robes splattered with blood, and the same hollow feeling in her chest that she had when she had first walked into the Tower and realized what had happened. 

Still, she hurries to Alissa’s side and crouches down to examine her. 

“Alissa? Are you hurt?” she asks, brushing back Alissa’s hair and wincing at the large bruise that covered the elf mage’s forehead. 

“Iluuser?” Alissa coughed, looking up at her, “It’s—I’m not dreaming, right? You’re here? Uldred’s gone?”

“He’s gone, and may the Maker have mercy on him, because I certainly didn’t,” she affirms, using the last dregs of her mana to heal Alissa’s bruise. 

“ _Good,”_ Alissa says, grasping her hands, a grimace of a smile on her face. 

“Let’s get you downstairs,” she said, helping Alissa stand, “Can you walk down the stairs?”

“Yeah,” Alissa said, shaking off her hand, “I—Uldred didn’t break us. Could have killed us at any time, like he did to Elaine in the beginning—but he had _plans_ for us. We were—I just want get to the infirmary. I need to work—help.”

“Okay,” she said softly, nodding and handing her a lyrium potion. 

Alissa took the potion with a grateful smile and drank it down. Her hands glowed a soft blue as all the bruises and cuts across her skin stitched themselves together and healed, and she ran a quick hand through her hair before carefully making her way toward the door. As Alissa stumbled away (she seemed…not the same because would any of them be the same after this, but better than Cullen at least), she walked over to the First Enchanter who was helping the other mages up. 

“First Enchanter?” 

Irving sighed as the last of the ragged group made their way to the door, “Maker, I’m too old for this.”

Wynne hurried over, “Irving! Are you alright?”

“I’ve—” he stumbled a bit and groaned, “—been better. But I am thankful to be alive.”

He turned towards her, “I _was_ surprised to see you standing there, Iluuser. But I am glad you have returned. The Circle owes all of you a debt we will never be able to repay.”

She shakes her head (the dead lie around them in accusation), “There is no debt to be repaid; I am sorry I didn’t get here sooner.”

(If she hadn’t dallied, if she hadn’t hesitated, if she had told them to immediately come to the tower, would Elaine still be alive? Would Cullen be better? Would more people in the Tower live? How many of the dead were because of her?)

Irving gently put a hand on her shoulder, “You did what you could, far better than anyone could have expected. Many here, including myself, owe you our lives. Come, the Templars await. We shall let them know that the tower is once again ours.”

“Of course,” she manages, tearing her eyes away from the bodies of the abominations (how can they even do a proper funeral with all this?)

“I’ll need you to guide me down the stairs… Ah, curse whoever insisted the Circle be housed in a Tower,” the First Enchanter muttered as she steadied him with her arm around his, gingerly walking down the stone steps. 

Wynne clicks her tongue at his halting steps and tries to get him to stop so she can properly heal him (this is way beyond her own meager healing abilities), but the First Enchanter waves her off, citing the need to hurry before the Knight Commander can decide that all is lost. They collect everyone gathered around the barrier on the first floor (a ragged cheer goes up when they see them return, and through her haze of grief, she still manages to feel a stab of vicious satisfaction at the sight of Kestral’s ruined nose. It looked like even Alissa could not save what she had blighted), and make their way to the great barred doors that the First Enchanter, with a surprising burst of strength, manages to force open. 

The Knight Commander whirls around, hand already at the hilt of his sword, when he sees their group, and his eyes widen and hand falls away, “Irving? Maker’s breath, I did not expect to see you alive.”

“It is over, Greagoir. Uldred…is dead,” the First Enchanter says, limping forward with a small smile. 

Cullen shoves his way to the front, eyes blazing, “Uldred tortured those mages, hoping to break their wills and turn them into abominations. We don’t know how many of them have turned.”

Her stomach drops, and Irving turned to face Cullen, face a thunderous scowl, “ _What?_ Don’t be ridiculous!”

“Of course he’ll say that, he might be a blood mage!” Cullen yelled, staring imploringly at the Knight Commander, “Don’t you know what they _did_? I won’t let this happen again!” 

“ _I_ am the Knight Commander here, not you,” the Knight Commander said frostily. 

“And what does the Knight Commander say?” she asked, hand reaching toward her staff (she may not have much mana left, but she’ll be damned if she’s managed to get this far only for the Knight Commander to order them to be cut down)

The Knight Commander looks at the First Enchanter, and Irving says (with so much more confidence than she feels, and she would bet, he really feels), “We will rebuild. The Circle _will_ go on, and we will learn from this tragedy and be strengthened by it.”

Greagoir nods and turns back to look at Cullen, “We have won back the Tower. I will accept Irving’s assurance that all is well.”

Cullen shook his head frantically, “But they may have _demons_ within them, lying dormant—lying in _wait!”_

_“Enough._ I have already made my decision,” the Knight Commander says, with a glare that has quelled many a Templar and mage before.

Cullen still looked mutinous, jaw and hands both clenched, but he looked down and stormed off. 

The Knight Commander shook his head and then turned to them, “Thank you, you have proven yourself both a friend of the Circle and of the Templars.”

“So, soldiers?” Amdir asked, looking up from cleaning off one of his daggers. 

“I promised you aid, but with the Circle restored, my duty is to watch the mages. _They_ are free to help you however,” the Knight Commander said, nodding at the group crowded around the healers, “Speak with them.”

“You will just let them go?” she asked, looking at the Knight Commander in surprise. 

“If the First Enchanter permits it. Please, excuse me,” he turns to look at the First Enchanter and actually cracks a smile, “And Irving—it is good to have you back.”

The First Enchanter chuckled dryly and shook his head, “Ah, I’m sure we’ll be at each other’s throats again in no time.”

Everyone wanders off, the First Enchanter and the Knight Commander to examine the damage done to the tower (she’s not even sure where they will begin), Morrigan to examine the libraries (“ ‘tis not promising, but I doubt I will have another chance to look at it unencumbered”), Wynne to the make-shift infirmary set up in one of the storerooms, and the rest to the rooms that the First Enchanter had indicated that they could stay in for now, if they liked. 

She joins Wynne at the infirmary, where Alissa takes one look at her and makes her sit down. 

“You’re suffering from mana exhaustion,” Alissa said matter-of-factly, reaching out and turning her head this way and that, “How many lyrium potions have you chugged?”

“I really don’t remember,” she admitted, letting Alissa snap her fingers and shine a light in her eyes. 

Alissa pulled a wry grin, “Makes sense. Well, just take it easy for a few days. And I’d recommend not pulling out ice walls or blizzards for at least a week, but given how last time I tried to ban you from that, you were on the training grounds again in three days to defend your winning streak, maybe I shouldn’t bother.”

She smiles a bit at that (she remembers that; Enchanter Curtis had been running them through an obstacle course all week, with a tournament right after, and Alissa had yelled at her, but she had gone on to win anyway, and it had been fun, with Anders constantly flipping between scolding her and bragging about her to others, Jowan looping an arm around her neck, Alissa rolling her eyes, and Elaine sneakily bringing Cullen forward so he could offer his congratulations as well. It seemed so long ago)

“You are okay?” she asked Alissa as the other girl turned to Owain to ask what supplies they had left. 

Alissa didn’t bother to turn around, “If you keep asking me that—I’m fine, I’m busy, and that’s good.”

“But Elaine—”

“Died protecting Roger, and—I’d rather not talk about it,” Alissa said, her voice a flat, final sound that brooked no arguments. 

“Do you want to leave?” she asked, lowering her voice, “Technically, I think we can use the Right of Conscription—”

“No,” Alissa cut in, giving her a hard glance and then grimaced, “—maybe. Later, not now. I’ll definitely join you guys for the battle against the Archdemon, and maybe afterwards—but not now. We need all the spirit healers we can get here, right now.” 

“But staying here—”

“How about you go look for Cullen?” Alissa interrupted, gesturing toward the door, “He wouldn’t let any of us check him. You should go after him, maybe he’ll let you help him.”

She tapped her fingers against her staff, “I’m not sure that’s the best idea right now,” she said slowly. 

“Worth a try, isn’t it?” Alissa said with a shrug, turning away to sort bandages.

It’s a clear dismissal, and more patients are crowding around Alissa (besides Wynne, Alissa and Anders are easily the best spirit healer in Kinloch Hold, and Anders has escaped), and she does need to talk to Cullen (although…she really isn’t sure this is the best time or place), so she walks out into the hallway, keeping an eye out for a flash of blonde hair (she’s not even sure if she wants to find him).

She finally sees him, near one of the apprentice dorms (it’s not the one she lived in for so long, but she knows all of the dorms like the back of her hand. Or at least, she used to). She approaches him slowly, making sure her footsteps echo down the hallway and letting her staff scrape a bit against the floor, so he’s already turned around and frowning at her when she draws up to him. 

“Cullen, are you alright? Alissa says you won’t let any of the spirit mages look at you—”

“Get away from me,” he cut in, glaring at her, “You—make me sick. Why did you let those mages live?”

(Perhaps it’s good that she barely has any mana left. Otherwise she’s sure she might have instinctively attempted to freeze him)

“They are my _family,_ Cullen,” she says, carefully keeping her hands at her side (but her nails are cutting into her palms nonetheless).

“They turned this entire tower into a bloodbath—their own personal nightmare kingdom,” he spat out. 

“I already killed the ones that did that,” she argues, trying not to let her frustration show on her face, “The abominations are all dead, we killed the blood mages, and I ground Uldred to dust. What else would you have me _do_?”

“Make sure this can never happen again,” he said with a cutting motion of his hand, “Let the Right cleanse this place.”

“There are _children_ here,” she protested (he can’t be _serious_ ). 

“Then they can’t grow up to become monsters,” he says solemnly, no hesitation in his voice or expression. 

(She can’t do this. She remembers how he had once told her quietly that maybe the Templars were too harsh on mages, and the way he had smiled hopefully at her, and she looks at him now, with both fear and loathing in his eyes, and if she doesn’t walk away from this conversation now, she will only make things worse) 

“I see. I—may the Maker watch over you, Cullen,” she manages to force out (there’s a lump in her throat that she will not acknowledge)

“Your words are poison; I need no blessings from you,” he said, his mouth twisting, and then he is turning away from her and walking away. 

She slumps against the wall, trying to breathe (she will not cry, she will _not_ cry, she will _not cry_ , not over this, this is just one more ruined thing, and she can live with that, she has to live with that, it’s nothing compared to Elaine—)

“Hey, you got looked at by your healer friend, right?”

She whirls around to see Alistair, worriedly looking at her, at the doorway of the apprentice dorm (this must be the one the First Enchanter said they could use). 

She tries to stand up straight, “I did…How much did you hear?”

Alistair’s mouth thinned, “He shouldn’t have said that. Any of that.”

She rubs her face with her hand (well good, this has already been the worst day of her life, why not add a bit of humiliation into the mix), “He is…not entirely wrong—”

“He is,” Alistair said firmly, “I get that he’s angry, but he shouldn’t take it out on _you_. You saved everyone, you saved _him._ He should be laying flowers and chocolate at your feet, not telling you to kill the survivors.”

“I did not save everyone,” she said wearily, scraping her nails against the underside of her jaw, “All of us did what we could, and even then there are _so many dead_ —”

She tries to stifle the sob that scrapes out of her throat, but she can barely muffle that, much less the tears pooling in her eyes. Alistair quickly takes her arm and pulls her into the room, where she holds her hands in front of her mouth and turns away (she can’t show weakness, she can’t show grief, she can’t break down, there’s still so much to _do_ , and she’s supposed to be competent, and—) 

“It’s okay, I’m the only person here,” Alistair said softly, hovering at her side, “If you want to cry, scream, shout, blast things to pieces, go ahead. I guarantee you, I wasn’t much better. And I’m not going to tell anyone.”

She wails (so many people that she had grown up with are _dead_ , and she doesn’t even know how all of them died, if they gave in or were killed, but what difference does it make now that all of them are _gone)_ , and now she’s sobbing, and Alistair is moving cautiously forward, and she looks at him, all guileless worry and a similar look of grief (he lost most of his makeshift family as well), and she buries her face in his tunic and just cries. 

He tenses up a bit at first, but then carefully places his hands on her back and makes gentle, soothing sounds until she looks up at him and holds out Elaine’s locket, “I—This was Elaine’s. I didn’t get to say goodbye before I left and now—she’s dead. She’s _dead._ She gave this to Roger, and he was an abomination I killed—it’s good she didn’t see that—didn’t see what he became—but I—I don’t even know what to do with it. I don’t even know where her body is.”

“Did she have family?” he asks softly. 

She jerkily nods, “In Highever. But I don’t know…how to find them, who they are, if they want to remember her…”

“We can try,” he says firmly, “If we’re near there, or even after killing the Archdemon. We can give it to them.”

She nods again, and breathes, trying to time her breaths with his to get back control, “I thought…I thought while we were coming here that things would be tense. But Elaine’s dead, Alissa has shut me out, and Cullen is—”

She breaks off, biting her lip and angrily digging her the heel of her hand into her eye (these tears won’t seem to _stop)_. 

“Do you want me to challenge him to a duel?” Alistair asks her, jokingly but there is steel in his tone, “I’m not a model Templar, but I’m not bad in a fight.”

A surprised laugh bubbles out of her, and she shakes her head, “No, don’t do that. Maybe…just give him some time, and maybe he’ll get better.”

(That’s all she can hope for now)

“Okay,” Alistair said equanimously as she stepped away from him and managed to brush the tear tracks off of her face. 

“How do I look?” she asked, looking at him as she quietly managed to dreg up enough mana to make her eyes look less red. 

Alistair smiled at her, “You look good.”

She snorts (she can feel the dried blood in her hair and the puffiness of her face and the way her nose is still running), “I know you’re lying, Alistair. Maker, I could use a bath.”

“For once, I’m going to agree with you,” Amdir said, poking his head in. 

Her hand falls from her face as she looks at the elf, “…how long have you been there?” she asked carefully. 

“Not long,” Amdir said smoothly, sitting down on one of the beds, “Was looking through the apothecary; you guys do have some rare herbs. I could make some very interesting poisons out of them. Just say the word, and that curly-haired Templar won’t know what hit him.”

She sighed and looked up at the ceiling (was everyone here to be witness to her humiliation), “No.”

Amdir squints at her, “Is that the word?”

“ _No.”_

Amdir huffs in disappointment but sets down his daggers to sharpen, and eventually the rest of their group trickles in. Wynne informs her that some of the mages have gotten one of the bathhouses working again, so at least there’s that. They spend the next few days in the Tower, recovering from the long fight and helping them rebuild (mostly clean. The first time she saw the pile of bodies, she had to run away to retch into a bucket. She _knew_ those people, and now they’re gone. The weird fleshy pustules, despite how disgusting they are, are easier for her since she can’t tell who they used to be. She freezes and levitates them down to the lake, except a few Alissa wanted to keep as samples). Amdir and Barkspawn stick close to her side, easily running interference whenever she has to be alone and simply grieve. Leliana helps her inscribe and light candles in the Chantry for all the dead she can remember, and Alistair stays up all night listening to her tell stories about them through her tears. Wynne clicks her tongue every time she sees her using more magic than usual and forces her to sit down and wraps her in blankets and somehow finds her some tea. Sten stolidly helps them clear the hallways and start a list counting those present, and surprisingly, Morrigan asks for her help in searching through the library, and that is a sufficiently familiar and distracting task to help take her thoughts off the people she kept thinking she could see at the corner of her eye. 

(She doesn’t know how Alissa is going to stand it; three days in, and she is longing to leave to escape these familiar halls and all the memories now ruined by it) 

On the fourth day, they announce their intention to go, and the First Enchanter smiles sadly at them. 

“Here we are, the Tower in disarray, the Circle nearly annihilated…though it could have been much, _much_ worse. I am glad you arrived when you did. It’s almost as though the Maker Himself sent you,” he said. 

“I don’t know about that, but I am glad I could—save some people,” she says haltingly. 

He smiled gently at her wording, “Yes. From what Greagoir has told me, it seems that you came here seeking allies. The least we can do is help you against the darkspawn. I would hate to survive this only to be overcome by the Blight.”

“Are there enough left?” Amdir asked doubtfully

Irving’s smiled broadened, “Has travelling with my apprentice not shown you that we are not to be underestimated? The mages you see here will be a great help to you. You have my word as First Enchanter. The Circle will join the Grey Wardens in the fight.”

Wynne spoke up, “Irving, I have a request. I seek leave to follow the Grey Wardens.”

Irving sighed, “Wynne, we need you here. The _Circle_ needs you.”

“I appreciate the sentiment, Irving, but the Circle will do fine without me,” Wynne said easily, “The Circle has _you_. Your apprentice and her fellow wardens are brave and good and capable of great things. If they will accept my help, I will help them accomplish their goals.”

“It would be an honor to have you join us,” she said, despite Morrigan’s frown. 

(They really needed a healer besides her own paltry abilities. Wynne was the best spirit healer in Kinloch Hold, and Alissa had shown through the past few days that she was fully capable of running the infirmary, so she was glad the older mage was joining.)

The First Enchanter shook his head ruefully, “You were never one to stay in the tower when there was adventure to be had elsewhere.”

“Why stay when I can be of service elsewhere?” Wynne asked cheerfully.

“Then I give you leave to follow the Grey Wardens, but know that you will always have a place here,” the First Enchanter said solemnly, “When the time comes, we will stand beside you.”

As they walked out the doors onto the bridge leading out into the lake, Alistair tapped her shoulder and handed her an embossed hardback book. 

“You mentioned that you wished we had a map, and I saw some atlases in the library, and it didn’t look like they’d be needing _all_ of them right now, so I took one? For you? I mean, it may not be the best one, but I thought we’re traveling, so you don’t want the one that’s the size of a table, anyway,” Alistair said in a rush, as she blinked and slowly paged through the beautifully inked pages of the atlas. 

(She remembers paging through this one; she had looked through all the atlases in the library, dreaming of the day she could go travel. Funny, how things had worked out)

“It’s beautiful. Thank you, Alistair,” she says, giving him the first smile she’s managed to crack in days. 

He smiles back, and she thinks maybe (just maybe), they can get through this. 


	16. Trevelyan: Hinterlands

The Hinterlands are a vast green meadowland with clear streams and fluttering butterflies, and very different from the muddy, brown Ferelden that she had been expecting. In fact, it would almost have been a nice place to visit, if it weren’t for the apostate mages and Templars that had decided to rampage and war across the countryside. Before even reaching Mother Giselle, they had felled one group of each and interrupted the battle between another set. 

Scout Harding is nice, professional, and above all, not awed by her presence (she has enough bowing and pretty words to last her a lifetime, and there’s a sentence she would have never imagined saying to herself). She tells them about what the Inquisition scouts have managed to find and points them to where Mother Giselle has set up shop. Mother Giselle isn’t exactly what she expected, although a Chantry mother who actually supported their slightly heretical inquisition would have to be made from a different mold, she supposed. Surprisingly, she doesn’t seem to think magic is inherently evil, which is good, except for some reason, she thinks the official Chantry will support her views. 

“You want me to walk into Val Royeux, home of the White Spire and seat of the Chantry’s power, and somehow, what, appeal to the remaining clerics?” she asked dubiously. 

“If I thought you were incapable, I would not suggest it,” Mother Giselle replied serenely. 

“Will they even listen?” she asked doubtfully, scuffing her boot a bit in the dirt. 

Mother Giselle smiled, “Let me put it this way: you needn’t convince them _all_ , you just need some of them to…doubt. Their power is their unified voice. Take that from them, and you receive the time you need.” 

(It looks like the Game is alive and well in the Chantry as well. Not that that part is surprising; the Chantry’s base is in Orlais, and the Divine was known as a great player of the Game. Still, even if she’s still in mourning and terrified of being thrown into some dark pit never to see the light of day again, she can’t help but feel a frisson of excitement. The Game, the thing she had been trained for, and had practiced as much as she could in the Circle, and here, finally, she could take the stage— 

That is, if the Templars didn’t come to clap her in irons as soon as they saw her.) 

“Thank you for your advice,” she says with a polite smile (never turn away a potential ally, but never promise anything without thinking through all the ramifications either). 

“I honestly don’t know if you’ve been touched by Fate and sent to help us, but I hope,” the revered Mother said earnestly, “Hope is what we need now. The people will listen to your rallying call, as they will listen to no other. You could build the Inquisition into a force that will deliver us…or destroy us.” 

(Well. That was a cheerful thought) 

Mother Giselle says she will go to Haven and tell Leliana the Chantry members who are willing to talk, and she is grateful for that and makes sure to tell Scout Harding to keep close guard (the last thing they need is the one sympathetic member of the Chantry dying in their care). 

Mother Giselle packs her bags and murmurs blessings over the people of the refugee camp, and Varric turns to her and asks, “So. What now?” 

She fiddles with her gloves (thankfully the strange light from her palm doesn’t shine through), staring at the milling refugees in the camp. They all look hollow-cheeked, tired, grimy, and cold, and she knows a true Herald would want to help these huddled masses out of the pure generosity of her heart. Unfortunately, they’re stuck with her instead, but she can still at least attempt to do what a true Herald would do, can’t she? 

(Not to mention that helping out the refugees here was bound to get the word of the Inquisition out in a positive fashion and make it slightly less likely for her to get arrested and executed on sight by the Chantry.) 

“We could ask around, see what we could do to help out,” she decides, looking at the hill where another Inquisition scout was stationed with crates and other supplies. 

“We should also see what we can do about the renegade mages and Templars fighting across the countryside,” Cassandra says, with a nod. 

“Yeah, we should probably keep the Anders look-alikes from rampaging across this place,” Varric commented lightly, “What’s with apostate mages and feathers anyway? Besides you, Chuckles.” 

“Thank you, I think,” Solas replied drily, “But I agree, stopping the rogue Templars and mages will most likely be helpful.” 

(More fighting. Of course there would be.) 

She makes sure that they have an adequate amount of health potions and lyrium potions (even though strangely, she hasn’t had need of one, but then again, neither has Solas), and they walk over to the scout. Recruit Whittle lets them know that the refugees are in desperate need of fleece blankets (despite the sun shining, Ferelden is still a cold place), that any apostate supply caches they could find would be greatly appreciated, and that the apostates seem to be holed up in the Witchwood. 

They head out for the Witchwood (she’s not sure how she feels about these apostates; she has a feeling that Andi would cheer them on while Oscar would roll his eyes— 

But in the end, both of them are gone, and it’s only her left to make the choices now. And these apostates are wrecking devastation, and yes, they aren’t the only ones, they meet refugees and villagers who the Templars have harmed as well, but both sides need to stand down, and if the only way to do that is to fight them to death— 

But she would rather not. Maybe she can turn them in as Inquisition prisoners. They could be useful later.) 

They run into multiple bands of mages and Templars and have to fight all of them, with her throwing up lightning cage after lightning cage (and it disturbs her, how easily the power flows through her hands. It had never been so easy before), Solas providing barriers and supporting fire with ease, Varric’s Bianca a sight to behold, and Cassandra barreling through their ranks. They also unfortunately run into multiple bears (where did they all come from? Did Fereldens have to deal with them _all the time?_ No wonder they loved their giant dogs so much if this was what they had to deal with on a daily basis), which Cassandra dispatches with ease. 

The apostates in the Witchwood are a ragged, desperate band, screaming out spells in hoarse voices, magic flaring wildly, but she manages to shock all of them into submission with well-timed lightning spells, and then it’s up to the Inquisition scouts to help them transport them back. The Templar camp is similar, although better set up, equipped, and defended (and it is harder to remember to only shock them into unconsciousness, not into the beyond.), but in the end, the ones she doesn’t manage to hit, Cassandra does, easily pummeling them with her shield, until they drop into submission. 

(She seriously thinks that Cassandra probably could have handled this entire trip on her own. If all Seekers were like her, no wonder Templars were terrified of them) 

They still have to find Horsemaster Dennet, so they trek across the fields, defeating bears and bandits along the way. They also kill some rams for the refugee camp (one of the lesser acknowledged perks of magic is instant cooked food if fire magic is practiced to precision. And there are leaves to wrap the smoked meat, so it’s all very convenient) and herd a lost druffalo home (she’s pretty sure Solas is less than impressed behind his bland smile, but the druffalo was there, and the owner was near Horsemaster Dennet’s farm, so it wasn’t entirely unreasonable). 

Horsemaster Dennet is a gruff, but reasonable man and agrees to provide the Inquisition with horses once it’s more settled and he’s more assured that his horses won’t end up as strips of jerky for the soldiers. In a gesture of goodwill, he offers her a Ferelden Forder of her own. 

(She hasn’t ridden since she was twelve and still taking riding lessons. This magnificent creature with a glossy brown coat and white stripe down its nose seems to belong to that other life, and she stares at it for several seconds in stunned silence before Varric coughed, and she realized where she was again). 

She thanks the Horsemaster, but since there is only one horse, she lets one of the scouts take it back to the camp (and she can’t say that she isn’t somewhat relieved. Horses are for nobles, and she hasn’t been one for so long, and it’s better this way, even with boots covered in Ferelden mud). Besides, there are many other tasks around the Hinterlands to assist with, such as clearing out a pack of demonically-possessed wolves, searching for the rest of the apostate caches, and defeating a group of bandits preying on the refugees. 

With all this going on, it’s about a week before they make their way back to Haven, trailing new recruits in tow (unfortunately, most of them have taken to calling her Herald as well. She supposes it’s better than Lady Trevelyan, but it still feels a hairsbreadth from blasphemy, and she tells them to stop, but they think she’s being modest. She’s not. Some kind of glowy thing in her hand that closes rifts does not make her some sort of divine savoir. Even if she doesn’t remember what happened, she’s sure that this is a mistake. 

After all, what use is a savoir who can’t even save the people closest to her?) 

She’s reassuring Harritt that his mage armor has worked perfectly in the field (and it’s also so much warmer than her Free Marcher robes), when a giant shadow with horns looms over them. She turns around, and blinks, staring _up_ at a statuesque female qunari with golden eyes and horns that curl back around her head somewhat like a ram’s (she was _at least_ a head taller than _Cassandra._ In fact, she was wondering if there was anyone at all in Haven who was taller than this woman) and a mage’s staff strapped to her back. 

“You, the Herald?” the qunari woman asked, flicking her eyes over her. 

“I am Rasleanne Trevelyan,” she corrects gently, nodding. 

The woman smiles and stretches out a hand, “Pleasure to meet you, Rasleanne Trevelyan. I’m Issala Adaar, current leader of the Valo-kas company. Heard you guys could use some extra manpower.” 

She shakes Issala’s hand (the calluses on her palm does feel like those of a battlemage’s, but she had thought the qunari liked to keep their mages bound and chained? But the mercenary captain has no scars around her mouth or wrists), “We really could. Have you talked to Cassandra or the Commander?” 

(And what would the Seeker and ex-templar make of an apostate qunari mage? But it wasn’t like they could be choosy) 

“I talked to your Commander; he seems to be making the best he can with the raw recruits you’ve got,” Issala replied bluntly, turning to look at the training grounds where Cullen was currently having the recruits fight each other, “You’ve got some talent with the ex-templars and former soldiers, but not that many. My men have been fighting the good fight for nearly twenty years now, and we always finish the job, and we haven’t lost a soul. Except Ashaad Two, and he left because he got tired of us calling him Ashaad Two.” 

“That is an impressive record, but forgive me for asking, how long have you been in command?” she asked, hiding a grin (maybe qunari aged differently, but Issala didn’t look that much older than her). 

Issala chuckled, “Worried that I’m not up to snuff? It’s true, I’ve only been in command two years since Shokraker decided to retire, but let me guarantee you, I’m _good._ Also, no offense, but none of you look all that old either.” 

She smiled ruefully at Issala, “True enough. Well, if the Commander has no objections, then I do not either. We should introduce you to Josephine; she’s our chief ambassador, and the one who handles our finances.” 

(She had confidence the Antivan ambassador would be able to negotiate a rate that wouldn’t bankrupt the Inquisition’s meager stores of gold. She had watched as the diminutive woman had argued the haughty Marquis DuRellion into humble acceptance with a few polite words and a smile. Leliana couldn’t have picked a better person, and she hopes when there is more time, she can pick Josephine’s mind a bit about all the courts she’s traveled to) 

“Always a pleasure to work for someone who understands a mercenary company’s needs,” Issala replied with another sharp grin. 

They walk into the chantry, and she nods in respect to Mother Giselle who is busy sorting out all the herbs gathered, and to Josephine’s credit, she barely blinks in surprise as Issala crouches a bit to get through the door. 

“A pleasure to meet you, Captain Adaar,” Josephine smiled and proffered a hand towards the qunari woman, “I have heard of the Valo-Kas company before, and I am delighted that you would join us.” 

“I—I am glad you have heard of me—us, before,” Issala stammered out, taking Josephine’s hand, shaking it, and then blankly staring at it. 

“What brings you to the Inquisition?” Josephine asked cheerfully, gracefully drawing Issala closer to her desk by the hand and sitting down. 

“Well—we heard what happened with the Conclave and all and thought—that we should help out,” Issala replied, not taking her eyes off of Josephine. 

“And we are grateful,” Josephine said, shuffling some of the papers on her desk and starting to frown, “Unfortunately, I’m not sure we can afford your usual rates. You must understand we do not have the Chantry’s backing any longer, and—” 

“We _completely_ understand,” Issala reassured her quickly, “How’s this: we work for you on a trial basis, no pay, for the first month, with the understanding that fifty percent of all bounty procured by our company we keep. After the first month, if you are satisfied with our services, we can renegotiate the rates?” 

“That would be splendid,” Josephine said with real delight, quickly scribbling on some papers on her desk. 

She frowned, and tilted her head, looking from the mercenary captain to their ambassador and back again. Since when were mercenary captains so forgiving in their rates? She had been confident that Josephine could argue their rates down, but that barely counted as an argument. That barely counted as a _negotiation;_ it was almost as though the qunari mercenary captain had suddenly decided she wanted to stay— 

Issala’s eyes were still pinned on their Antivan ambassador, barely glancing down at the contract to sign her name, and as Josephine beamed at her, she swore that the tips of the mercenary captain’s ears turned a bit pink. 

(Ah. Well, that was certainly useful. She wondered if Josephine had noticed?) 

“Your ambassador seems very—lovely,” Issala commented as they walked out of the Chantry onto the snowy grounds, “And very capable, but does her husband not worry about his wife, all the way out here?” 

She hid her smile with a cough (Leliana would _not_ be pleased, given how Josephine had mentioned that the older woman had watched out for her like a little sister, but this was _delightful_ ), “Josephine is unmarried, and she is training to take over control of her family, so I believe her family sees this as good opportunity.” 

“Well, that is good to know,” Issala said absentmindedly, touching her right hand while looking back (longingly?) at the Chantry. 

“Is your band far?” she asked, unable to stop smiling, so hurriedly pulling her scarf up to cover her mouth (in her defense, Ferelden was _cold_ ). 

Issala blinked and quickly shook her head as if to clear her head, “No, they’re about a day or so away. We didn’t want to strain your hospitality too much without any notice; a whole band of Tal-Vashoth tends to put a dent in any food stores.” 

“We’re leaving for Val Royeux soon, but I will be delighted to meet them when we get back,” she said, sincerely smiling up at the tall mercenary captain. 

“Oh? Last I heard, the Chantry was still calling you guys heretics. Sure that’s a good idea, walking straight into their headquarters?” Issala asked, raising an eyebrow. 

“We need all the support we can get,” she said, with a practiced, measured tone and smile, “And, since you’ve signed a contract with us, technically you’re heretics as well.” 

“We already were,” Issala pointed out, gesturing at the staff on her back, “And besides, signing that contract was _completely_ worth it.” 

“I’m sure,” she said dryly. 

She walks the qunari woman to the outskirts of the camp and waves her goodbye as her tall, horned figure disappeared over the hill. Issala’s troops will definitely come in handy; a bunch of Tal-Vashoth mercenaries should make anyone, even the Chantry, think twice about attacking. 

(Although…if whatever had caused the explosion at the Conclave came back, she’s not so sure of their chances. How do you stop something like that?) 

“So that was the qunari mercenary captain Cullen was talking about,” Leliana said, coming up from behind her, “I assume Josephine was able to negotiate a good deal out of her?” 

She didn’t even try to keep the grin off of her face, “Something like that.” 

Leliana frowned at her, glanced over at the Chantry and then back to the hill that Issala had gone over, “…oh no.” 

“Oh, _yes._ I think the good mercenary captain saw our lovely ambassador and was _smitten,”_ she said, savoring every word (the Circle was always an incestuous hotbed of romantic drama, and it was always fun to watch. Well, fun as long as she didn’t actually walk into them while they were in compromising positions, although she had become resigned over the years to no one being worse offenders than Oscar and Andi) 

Leliana shook her head, “This is an…unfortunate development.” 

“You don’t think Josephine will like it?” she asked anxiously (on the other hand, she _definitely_ didn’t want the one non-scary leader of the Inquisition uncomfortable. What if she left?). 

Leliana snorted, “I doubt Josie will notice. She is…innocent in love. And I will not have her become some mercenary captain’s plaything.” 

“I doubt that’s what Captain Adaar is planning,” she hastily reassured Leliana (the former bard had a _very_ dark look in her eyes), “You weren’t there. She turned into a stammering, lovestruck swain as soon as they met and offered Josephine a month of free service almost as soon as Josephine mentioned our finances.” 

“Hm,” Leliana chewed her lip, “I suppose I will observe her further, carefully.” 

“She will be a great addition to our forces,” she added (that was true, and plus, she had liked the directness of the woman. It would be a shame for Leliana to decide to kill her off) 

“You should go to some of the drills; our soldiers are more inspired when you are there,” Leliana said, with a look at the training grounds. 

She quickly waved her hands in front of her, “Oh no, I won’t be of any use; I’m no battlemage.” 

“That is not exactly what I have heard from our captives from the Hinterlands,” Leliana commented, raising her eyebrows. 

“ _That_ was mostly Cassandra’s work; I’m good in a pinch, but I will leave the formal training to our Commander,” she said firmly, waving vaguely at the feathery figure of Cullen who was thankfully far away, instructing the recruits how to properly hold up a shield (she needed to keep some tricks to herself; Oscar had taught her how to use surprise and lightning and if all else failed, a knife to fight, but against a former Templar knight captain, that might barely be enough to get her away) 

“You’re scared of Cullen, aren’t you?” Leliana asked, tilting her head and smiling at her. 

She smiled back tightly (don’t show fear; Leliana had been an Orlesian bard, and the Game was not kind to those who were so obvious), “Is it that obvious?” she asked lightly. 

“No, you hide it well, but you do take great care to keep a fair distance between you and our Commander,” Leliana pointed out, crossing her arms, “And sooner or later, our troops will pick up on that as well. It would not be good for it to seem that there are already be schisms in the Inquisition when we have barely begun.” 

“I know. It’s just that he’s—perfectly nice; it’s just strange,” she sighed, “I’ll help out with the drills for the mages before we leave for Val Royeux, and I’ll—try to talk to him more.” 

Leliana nodded approvingly, “I promise he’s alright. And if for some reason he annoys you, just mention that you know how long he spends in the morning to keep his hair from becoming a curly mess.” 

She stared at Leliana (she can’t imagine Cullen, serious as hell, barking orders left and right to his men, with curly hair. At all. And she can’t imagine him trying to sort it out either), “…that’s a joke, right?” 

Leliana laughed a bit, hand over her mouth, “Oh no, just ask Varric or Cassandra. Or even Iluuser.” 

“Do you have some sort of way to communicate with her?” she asked anxiously, “I have—I wrote a letter. For her. About Oscar, her brother.” 

(And begging for forgiveness and swearing that she will find who caused this destruction) 

Leliana’s face softened, “My birds can find her. Give me the letter, and I will make sure it reaches her. I am sorry for your loss.” 

“And I for yours,” she replies, reaching into her coat jacket and handing over the letter she had spent hours and countless drafts crafting before giving up and just sealing one in an envelope. 

“Yes,” Leliana smiled sadly, “‘Blessed are the peacekeepers, champions of the just. Blessed are the righteous, the lights in the shadow. In their blood, the Maker’s Will is written.’ Sometimes, I wonder if that’s what he wants. For us to die, so that his will is done; if death in the end, is his only blessing. What do you, the Maker’s prophet, think of that?” 

“I am no prophet,” she said, rubbing her hand, “But I—I can’t believe that. Even after all that’s happened.” 

(After all, the Maker had simply turned his back on this world. What happened to it was the result of man’s actions, and she would make sure to bring the figure at the Conclave to justice.) 

“Justinia gave him everything she had, and he still let her die,” Leliana said bitterly, striding over to her tent, “If the Maker doesn’t intervene to save the best of his servants, what good is he? I thought once that I was chosen, just as some say you are. I fought against the Blight, stood there with the Wardens when they found the Temple of Sacred Ashes, and then started working for the Divine, _helping_ people. But now she’s dead. It was all for nothing. Serving the Maker meant _nothing.”_

“And yet, here you still are,” she pointed out, gesturing at the papers and cages of rooks in the tent, “Serving the Inquisition and the Maker.” 

“It was Justinia’s last wish,” Leliana said, smoothing out a map on her desk, “And I will see it fulfilled.” 

(She understands that; Maker knows she’s not sure that Oscar wouldn’t have thrown himself from the top of the Tower if he hadn’t promised Andi that he would watch out for her.) 

“I don’t think she could have picked a better person,” she said honestly, looking at the piles of reports on Leliana’s desk. 

Leliana smiled slightly, as a raven hopped onto her arm, “I’ll make sure Baron Plucky gets Iluuser the letter.” 

“Thank you,” she said (had she named all the ravens?), and stepped out of the tent to get to the training grounds. 

Unfortunately, before she even got there, she saw a large group of mages and Templars that looked like they were about to brawl right outside the Chantry doors. She bit her lip as she began to edge closer (surely if she were straight in the middle of the fray, they wouldn’t dare try attacking each other? It’s not a good plan, but short of shocking them all into unconsciousness, she can’t really think of anything else), but Cullen beat her there, shoving both groups away from each other and firmly telling them that they are _all_ part of the Inquisition. 

(One of the Templars calls him Knight Captain, and he automatically tells him that that isn’t his title anymore. Does he regret that part of his life?) 

Of course, this is when Chancellor Roderick decides to appear and smarm his way around, dripping with insinuations about the effectiveness of the Inquisition and its Herald. The rest of the mages and Templars disperse back to their duties, but Cullen and the Chancellor are still there, arguing about who should be in charge of the Inquisition. 

The Chancellor is a minor problem, but Cullen is right when he sees her and mutters that he reflects the general opinion of Val Royeux. It’s much as she expected (a _mage_ Herald of Andraste? She’s as dubious as they are about all of this), but the sooner they get this over with the better, so she bids the two of them farewell to pack for the trip across the Frostback Mountains. 

“Please don’t let anyone riot while we’re gone,” she says quietly to Cullen as the Chancellor walks away, “You won’t have Cassandra.” 

Cullen briefly flashes a smile at her, “The walls will still be standing when all of you get back. I hope.” 

That’s the best she can hope for (at the very least, she is confident that he can handle their forces), so she nods and heads back to her room to prepare for Orlais and the first step in the Game. 


	17. Amell: The Crow

They don’t go five steps into the Hinterlands before they encounter a pack of bears that they dispatch quickly, except for one that Amdir managed to turn to his side. The hard part was actually naming the bear. Leliana had taken one look at the thing (huge, scarred, and all shaggy brown fur), cooed, and suggested Fuzzy Lumpkins. Amdir had scoffed and said that _obviously_ its name was Beary. 

“How could you saddle the poor thing with a name like that?” Leliana protested, letting her fingers run through the tall grass. 

“How is ‘Fuzzy Lumpkins’ any better?” Amdir demanded, hitching the pack on his back higher. 

“It’s _cute,_ ” Leliana insisted, “ _Beary_ is not.” 

“No self-respecting bear would answer to the name of Fuzzy Lumpkins,” Amdir grumbled. 

Iluuser hid her smile behind her hand since it looked like Morrigan was about to freeze both rogues where they stood (Iluuser actually thought both names were fine, but she didn’t want to get in the middle of this very serious argument), and Alistair isn’t even bothering to hide his grin, when a woman came running down the path toward them. 

“Oh thank the Maker,” she panted, eyes widening with gratitude before them, “We need help! They attacked the wagon; please help us!” 

The woman turned around and began to run up the hill, calling over her shoulder, “Follow me, I’ll take you to them!” 

Iluuser glances at Amdir who shrugs and Alistair who nods quickly and down at Barkspawn who seems to be tilting his head quizzically at the woman. Still, it can’t hurt to help these people (does she think that if she manages to save these people, she’ll be absolved of the ones she was unable to? She’s not sure; perhaps only time will tell), so she runs after the woman despite Morrigan’s frown and Sten’s almost imperceptible sigh. 

Over the hill, there is an overturned wagon, but no sign of the bandits, or even the merchants or peasants from the wagon. Instead, the woman runs up to a dark-skinned blonde elf dressed in leathers and with two sharp knives on his back. The man smirked at them and waved a bunch of armed men and archers forward while drawing said knives from his back (Ah. Well she should have guessed). 

“The Antivan Crows send their regards; the Grey Wardens die here!” the man yelled as a tree came tumbling down, presumably to try to squash them flat. 

She and the others dodged to the side, and she automatically threw up an ice barrier to block the barrage of arrows while Morrigan snarled, “This is what we get for attempting to help these fools!” before transforming into a spider and tearing her way across the mercenaries. Alistair and Sten charged into the fray, with Barkspawn fast on their heels, and Wynne stood firm, radiating healing energy and blasting the would-be assassins with quakes. 

(Or were they? This seemed like a clumsy assassination attempt, but that elf had mentioned the Antivan Crows. Those were mysterious assassins of great renown, basically ruling Antiva through the shadows. But this was quite far from Antiva, and quite honestly, she would have expected better from such a famous group of killers. Still, a _Crow._ A real live _Antivan Crow_. It wasn’t every day you got to meet one of those) 

Leliana had already leapt onto a prime perch to start raining down arrows of her own, while Amdir whistled and when a bear came barreling out of the woods, straight into a group of men charging him with swords drawn. 

“ _See?_ He answers to _Beary_!” Amdir yelled, as he flipped his knives out and leapt at the blonde elf. 

“You just _whistled,_ ” Leliana protested, shooting one of the other archers directly in the eye. 

“Are you both _mad?”_ Morrigan demanded, turning back briefly to yell at them before zapping some of the mercenaries with lightning spells. 

“Beary, _sit,”_ Amdir commanded as he dodged the knives of the other elf, elbowed him in the stomach, and as he staggered back, knocked him to the ground and slammed his head against the ground. 

He then placed his knee against the man’s chest and flipped his knife around to point at the elf when she called out, “ _Wait.”_

Amdir paused, his knife already against the unconscious elf’s throat, “Wait, why?” 

“He’s an _Antivan Crow,”_ she said, freezing and knocking back one of the last of the mercenaries with her staff before stepping toward them, “Do you know how rare those are?” 

Amdir gave her a flat stare, “You can’t be _serious._ Why are you so _excited?_ ” 

“Someone went to great expense to hire this man,” Leliana pointed out, wrenching her arrows out of some of the corpses and gathering the stray arrows from the dead archers, “Antivan Crows tend to charge exorbitant rates.” 

“This guy came all the way from Antiva?” Amdir asked, poking at him with his right hand. 

“Probably not, the crows get around,” Leliana said dismissively, sorting the arrows in her hand. 

(And how did a Chantry sister know that? Then again, Leliana had been a traveling minstrel before, and Antiva never made it a secret about their Crows. Still, she seemed oddly well-informed sometimes about the various courts of the land) 

“Any idea who sent him?” Alistair asked, sheathing his sword and putting his shield back onto his back. 

“Loghain would have the resources and a good reason to want us dead,” she mused out loud, staring at the blonde elf (he had to have stories about his exploits even if he wasn’t a particularly good Crow; at the very least, he was a _live_ Crow, and if half the stuff she had read about their training regimen was true, he was lucky to even be that). 

“Do you think we can use him to get at Loghain?” Amdir asked, staring speculatively at the other elf. 

Leliana shook her head, “Probably not; I’d imagine Loghain would pay the Crows, and the Crows would pay him, and never the two would need to meet.” 

“But he can still probably give us information,” she pointed out quickly as Amdir’s hand twitched, “We could still ask him questions.” 

“You want me to wake him up right after I just managed to knock him out,” Amdir said grumpily as he reached into one of his many pockets to bring out a small glass bottle that he uncorked with a flick of his fingers and waved beneath the Crow’s nose, “You’re just lucky I made some of this before we left.” 

The Crow groggily opened his eyes and winced, hand going up to rub his head before noticing the glaring Amdir sitting on him and then the rest of them, “What? Oh. I rather thought I would wake up _dead,_ or not wake up at all, as the case may be. But I see you haven’t killed me yet.” 

“Quiet,” Amdir snapped, shoving his dagger more aggressively against the other elf’s throat, “You’ll only speak when spoken to.” 

The elf smirked up at him, “Ooh, aggressive, aren’t you? Not bad looking either.” 

His eyes flickered across the rest of them, “Actually, none of you are. This is quite intriguing; do the Grey Wardens also recruit based on beauty?” 

If possible, Amdir’s glare intensified, Sten’s stony expression was beginning to resemble more of a glower, Morrigan’s hands had begun to crackle a bit with electricity, and Alistair was beginning to frown. On the other hand, Leliana looked nonplussed, and Barkspawn was still happily play wrestling with Beary. 

The Crow held up his hands as Amdir dug his knee in harder “But if it’s questions you’re planning on asking me, let me save you a little time and get right to the point. My name is Zevran, Zev to my friends. I am a member of the Antivan Crows, brought here for the sole purpose of slaying any surviving Grey Wardens,” he let out a short laugh, “Which I have failed at, sadly.” 

“We’re rather happy you failed,” she pointed out, placing her staff back on her back. 

“So would I, in your shoes,” Zevran nodded seriously, “For me, however, it sets a rather poor precedent, doesn’t it? Getting captured by a target seems a tad detrimental to one’s budding assassin career.” 

“Too bad for you, then,” Amdir said sarcastically. 

“Yes, it’s true,” Zevran said sadly, “Too bad for me.” 

“Are all these Antivan Crows like you?” Alistair asked, raising his eyebrows, “We won’t have much to worry about then,” 

“Oh _fine_ ,” Zevran said, rolling his eyes (he was awfully nonchalant for having a glaring Amdir still holding a knife to his throat), “Is that what you Fereldens do? Mock your prisoners? Such cruelty.” 

“Who hired you to kill us?” she cut in. 

“A rather taciturn fellow in the capital. Loghain, I think his name was? Yes, that’s it,” Zevran said easily, wiggling as if to get more comfortable, but stopping when Amdir pressed his knife in warningly. 

“So, you’re loyal to Loghain,” Amdir said, his hand steady and his eyes pinned on the would-be assassin. 

“I have no idea what his issues are with you. The usual, I imagine,” Zevran said dismissively, “You threaten his power, yes? Beyond that, no, I’m not loyal to him. I was contracted to perform a service.” 

She tilted her head to the side, “And now that you’ve failed that service?” 

Zevran laughed, “Well, that’s between Loghain and the Crows. And between the Crows and myself.” 

“So what are we supposed to do with you?” Amdir asked, glancing back at her, “Why is he even telling us all this?” 

Zevran laughed again, “Why not? I wasn’t paid for silence. Not that I offered it for sale, precisely.” 

He coughed, “Anyway, here’s the thing, I failed to kill you, so my life is forfeit. That’s how it works. If you don’t kill me, the Crows will. Thing is, I like living. And all of you are obviously the sort to give the Crows pause. So let me serve all of you, instead.” 

“Okay,” she said immediately (how often did anyone get a chance to have an Antivan Crow as an ally? Alissa would be beside herself when she told her, and even Cullen— 

Well, at least Alissa would be excited) 

“What the _fuck,_ Amell,” Amdir said disbelievingly, turning his head to point his glare more directly at her. 

“He offered!” she pointed out as Barkspawn untangled himself from Beary and snuggled his muzzle into her leg. 

Alistair was also gaping at her, “That makes it _more_ suspicious!” 

“He could be useful! It’s not every day we manage to get an Antivan Crow on our side!” she argued, reaching down to pat Barkspawn on the head. 

“Do you want our group to look like _even more_ of a deranged theater troupe than it already does? Don’t answer that,” Amdir snapped as she opened her mouth (there were _useful_ things to looking like a harmless theater troupe besides meeting interesting people and hearing stories about far-off places), “And what, can we expect the same loyalty from him that he’s showing Loghain?” 

“I happen to be a very _loyal_ person,” Zevran protested, “Up until the point where someone expects me to _die_ for failing. That’s not a fault really, is it? I mean, unless you’re the sort who—would do the same thing. In which case, I—don’t come very well recommended, I suppose. ” 

“What’s to stop you from finishing the job later?” Amdir demanded, turning his glare back onto the Crow. 

“To be completely honest, I was never given much choice regarding joining the Crows,” Zevran said, his expression and tone awfully sincere (although that could be fake; he was an assassin after all, and not all weapons were external), “They bought me on the slave market when I was a child. I think I’ve paid my worth back to them, plus tenfold. The only way out, however, is to sign up with someone they can’t _touch_. Even if I did kill you _now_ , they might kill me just on principle for failing the first time. Honestly, I’d rather take my chances with all of you.” 

“Besides, he’s welcome to try, but I’m pretty sure I can take him. And I know you can take him Amdir, and Beary certainly can,” she pointed out as Beary also ambled over. 

“Hell yeah his name is Beary, thank _you_ ,” Amdir groused adamantly, patting Beary on the head before turning back to Zevran with a slightly less ferocious glare, “Would they come after you?” 

“ _What?_ You’re not seriously considering this, are you?” Alistair asked, looking between her and Amdir with an increasingly wide eyes, “We’re taking the _assassin_ with us now? Does that really seem like a good idea?” 

“They may,” Zevran answered, looking up at Amdir, “I happen to know their wily ways, however. I can protect myself, as well as all of you. Not that any of you seem to need much help. And if not….well, it’s not as if I had many alternatives to start with, is it?” 

Amdir frowned, “You must think we’re royally stupid.” 

Zevran flashed a wide grin, “ _I_ think you’re all royally tough to kill. And utterly gorgeous. Seriously, the wardens must choose for beauty, no?” he coughed at their nonplussed reactions, “Not that I think any of you will respond to simple flattery, but there are worse things in life than serving at the whims of deadly _sex gods and goddesses.”_

Amdir stared at him dubiously before asking, “What are you getting out of all of this?” 

“Well, let’s see,” Zevran said in mock contemplation, “Being allowed to live is _nice_ and would make me marginally more useful to all of you. And somewhere down the line, if you guys decide you no longer have need of me, then I go on my way. Until then, I am yours. Is that fair?” 

Both Amdir and Alistair look less than convinced, Alistair slightly shaking his head when she glances at him, and Amdir still having his knife at Zevran’s throat, but at this point Barkspawn pads over and licks Zevran’s face happily. And everyone _knew_ how good mabari’s character judgements were. 

“Fine,” Amdir huffed, sheathing his knife. 

“Alright, alright,” Alistair sighed, “Still, if there was a sign we were _desperate_ , I think it just knocked on the door and said hello.” 

Zevran blinked as he tried to wipe the drool off of his face with the back of his hand, “…I do not know what has happened, but thank you big, smelly dog.” 

Morrigan huffed, crossing her arms in front of her, “A _fine_ plan. But I would examine your food and drink more closely from now on, were I you.” 

“That’s excellent advice for anyone,” Zevran quipped. 

“Barkspawn can sniff it first,” she added, rubbing Barkspawn’s ears as he padded back over to her, mouth drawn in a big doggy grin. 

“Welcome, Zevran,” Leliana said warmly, “Having an Antivan Crow join us sounds like a great plan.” 

“Oh?” Zevran asked, craning his head so he could see around Amdir (who was still sitting on top of him, glaring. She supposes it’s a step in the right direction that he doesn’t have his hands on his weapons), “You are another companion to be then? I wasn’t aware such _loveliness_ existed among adventurers, surely.” 

Leliana’s mouth pulled into an expression of distaste, “Or maybe not.” 

Neither Wynne nor Sten look especially happy about the new developments, but Sten stoically ignores the Crow while Wynne simply sighs. 

Amdir climbs off of Zevran (“You could stay longer if you like,” the Crow purred, and Amdir simply snorted and stretched), and Zevran bends the knee and pledges his loyalty to them. It was starting to get dark (another day or so then, until they reach Redcliffe), so they make their camp in a patch of woods that Amdir assures them, Beary will keep bear-free. Bodhan blinks a bit at their new arrival, but Sandal simply claps his hands together and beams at the elf, so it seems he has their approval. 

“I’ll take first watch,” Amdir says, striking his flint together to create a spark, “Keep an eye on things.” 

“As long as I’m one of them,” Zevran quipped, lounging next to Amdir. 

“You sure?” Alistair asked, sitting next to her, patting Barkspawn on the head. 

“Yeah,” Amdir replied, sitting back as the fire roared to life and pointedly flipping his knives out of his belt to sharpen. 

“Well then,” Zevran said, leaning back a bit, “It seems unfair for all of you to know my name but for me to know none of yours, no?” 

“Amdir Tabris,” Amdir said shortly, glancing up briefly before returning to his task. 

“Iluuser Amell,” she said with a smile, and scratched Barkspawn’s ears, “And this is Barkspawn.” 

“I have a name for my savior; I am so glad,” Zevran said lightly. 

“Alistair,” Alistair said with a wave of his hand. 

Sten didn’t bother to look up from setting up his tent, Leliana had gone off to catch game, and Wynne looked caught up in conversation with Morrigan (she couldn’t imagine that was going especially well), so she waved at them and said, “That’s Sten, and over there are Wynne and Morrigan. And Leliana is off getting food, and you’ve met Bodhan and Sandal.” 

“Charmed, I’m sure,” Zevran said, with a mock bow in their direction. 

Amdir glanced at him, “Morrigan may attempt to turn you into a toad. And don’t get between Sten and cookies.” 

She sighed, rubbing her hands together in front of the fire, “Thank _you_ , Amdir,” she turned with a smile to Zevran, “So, tell us about Antiva.” 

(Antiva, country of the Crows and wine and pirates. She and Alissa had read many a novel featuring the faraway country, with night time chases across rooftops, epic duels of honor, and assassins at every turn. Of course, she knew the real deal was most likely much less exciting, but still, some habits were ingrained, and no mage ever turned down the chance to hear about life beyond the walls of the Circle.) 

“Oh? You wish to know about Antiva do you?” Zevran asked, his mouth softening into perhaps his first genuine smile of the day, “The only way to truly appreciate it would be to go there. It is a warm place, not cold and harsh like this Ferelden. In Antiva, it rains often, but the flowers are always in bloom—or so the saying goes.” 

“Not liking Ferelden?” Amdir asked, not looking up from his knives 

“It’s a bit cold for my taste. And has more mud than I anticipated,” Zevran said easily, with a slight grimace at his boots, “Still, it does have one or two attractive features. _I_ hail from the glorious Antiva City, home to the royal palace. It is a glittering gem amidst the sand, my Antiva City. Do all of you come from some place comparable?” 

Amdir snorted, “Couldn’t call Denerim a gem.” 

“Truly?” Zevran asked, wide-eyed at the other elf, “Is it not the capital city?” 

“Sure, but if you’re not a noble, it’s a lot less fancy,” Amdir pointed out. 

“Ah, that is true of Antiva City as well,” Zevran said, nodding with a roll of his eyes, “And the rest of you?” 

“Redcliffe is okay, but can’t call it a gem, exactly,” Alistair said, with a slight gesture to the Hinterlands that surround him. 

“I don’t remember where I’m from,” she says with a dismissive wave of her hand, “And the Circle is the Circle.” 

(It’s less simple than that, but that’s enough information to give to anyone for now.) 

“Indeed?” Zevran asked, tilting his head to the side, “But you are a Free Marcher, are you not?” 

“I suppose I am; I remember a long voyage before arriving at the Circle, but that was a long time ago,” she pointed out, as she threw a stick for Barkspawn to chase after, “Ferelden is home now.” 

“Fereldens and their dogs,” Zevran sighed then quickly held up his hands as Barkspawn gave him a hurt glance, “Not that I’m complaining! Hm, you know what is most odd? We speak of my homeland, and for all its wine and its dark-haired beauties and the little flutes of the minstrels…I miss the leather the most.” 

“…is that some kind of euphemism?” Amdir asked blankly, looking up. 

Zevran laughed, “No, not in this case. I mean the _smell._ For years I lived in a _tiny_ apartment near Antiva City’s leathermaking district, in a building where the Crows stored their youngest recruits, packed in like crates. I grew accustomed to the stench, even though the humans complained of it _constantly_. To this day, the smell of fresh leather is what reminds me most of home than anything else.” 

“You sound like you’ve been away for a while,” Amdir commented. 

“Oh, not so long, I know,” Zevran replied, waving a hand dismissively, “It is my first time away from Antiva, however, and the thought of never returning makes me think of it constantly.” 

He shifted, “Before I left, I was tempted to spend what little coin I possessed on leather boots I spotted in a store window. Finest Antivan leather, _perfect_ craftsmanship…Ah, but I was a fool to leave them. I thought, ‘Ah, Zevran, you can buy them when you return as a reward for a job well done!’ More the fool I, no?” 

“You can get them when you get back,” she pointed out. 

(Assuming of course, there was a back) 

“True, and it’s a comforting thought. One simply never knows what is to come next,” he grinned at all of them, “How could I have suspected I would end up defeated by handsome and beautiful Grey Wardens, who then spare my life? I could not.” 

“Thank Barkspawn,” Amdir said dryly. 

“I shall procure the dog a juicy meat bone the next time I see one,” Zevran said solemnly, standing up, “If it is all the same to you, I would prefer not to speak more of Antiva. It makes me wistful and hungry for a proper meal.” 

The Crow wandered off to set up a tent, and Amdir turned slightly so he could keep an eye on him while still honing his knives. 

“He’s not so bad,” she commented lightly, grabbing the stick from Barkspawn to throw again. 

“Really? You don’t think he’s a bit…much? With the hair and the tattoos and the leather and all that?” Alistair asked, flailing his hands in Zevran’s general direction. 

She raised her eyebrows, “Amdir wears leather,” she pointed out, nodding at him across the fire. 

Amdir’s mouth drew into a small grin, “Yeah, you want to say something, Alistair?” 

“No!” Alistair said quickly, “It’s just—you know—” 

“Wouldn’t worry too much about it,” Amdir said, taking pity on Alistair’s flailing, “Besides, I’m not sure our group can look any stranger as it is.” 

She laughed, “Well, hopefully Arl Eamon of Redcliffe won’t mind. Will he, Alistair?” 

“Hope not,” Alistair said, shifting uneasily, “It’s been—awhile since I last saw him.” 

(She could just be imagining things, but the closer they get to Redcliffe, the more nervous Alistair seems to get. Still, given how the last meeting between him and the arl had gone, perhaps that makes sense. And there’s that awful arlessa there too; she and Amdir and Barkspawn have already agreed to let Barkspawn slobber all over the woman’s Orlesian finery.) 

“It’ll be good,” she said reassuringly, “After all, has to be better than my homecoming, right?” 

“I guess. You’re…doing okay? Better?” Alistair asked carefully as Amdir also turned to look at her. 

“I’m fine,” she said automatically, running a hand through her hair, “Or…I mean, I’m dealing with it.” 

(Besides the Archdemon nightmares, half the time she wakes up gasping with images of the bloody Tower still in front of her eyes, but cuddling with Barkspawn helps, and if it’s really bad she can just take over the watch for a few shifts. The only way she can actually help everyone at the Tower is to stop the Blight, and so she won’t think about what she’s lost. Uldred is dead, and Loghain will pay, and they will stop the Archdemon and then— 

Well, maybe by then, some wounds will have healed) 

“Anyway, keep Barkspawn with you for first watch,” she said, quickly shaking her head to clear it and tossing Amdir the drool covered stick, “He wants to play, and I want to bathe.” 

“Yes, your highness,” Amdir said sarcastically, grabbing the stick and letting Barkspawn gnaw on it. 

The night is uneventful, besides Morrigan pointedly casting poison-searching spells on the food while Zevran laughed, and the next day they are halfway to Redcliffe when they meet a merchant under attack by darkspawn. The battle is over quickly (Zevran fights somewhat differently from Amdir, preferring to launch surprise attacks and throw grenades rather than zip around like a cutting wind), and the merchant thanks them, but mourns the fact that his mule seems to have wandered off in the process. 

“This trip has been one miserable disaster after another,” the merchant complained, “I don’t suppose you’d consider helping a fellow out?” 

“How so?” Amdir asked warily. 

“Of all the other things that went wrong, the worst is this artifact I bought in Jader. It’s a control rod, I’m told, for a golem. No point in me keeping it however because I’ll never be able to use it. But maybe _you_ could?” the merchant asked hopefully 

(A _golem_ control rod? She’d only ever heard of golems in Orzamaar and the Deep Roads and Tevinter; it was a lost art; no one knew how golems were made anymore. An actual _golem._ That was almost better than an Antivan Crow.) 

She turned her hopeful gaze to Amdir, but before she could even open her mouth, the elf rolled his eyes and snapped at the merchant, “What’s the catch?” 

“The catch?” the merchant laughed nervously, rubbing the back of his neck, “Yeah, I suppose there is a catch, isn’t it? The catch is that the golem didn’t come with the rod. It’s supposed to be in a village down south, not far from here, waiting to be activated. Even if I could get down there, which I _can’t,_ I understand the place has been overrun by darkspawn. But that’s not an issue for adventurous types such as yourself, surely! Or I’m hoping that’s so, at least.” 

“How much?” she asked eagerly before Amdir could get another word in (golems did not land in your lap every day). 

The merchant grinned, “Nothing. I just don’t want to lug around something that could get mistaken for a gemstone by a bandit, but I’ve paid too much for it to just throw it away.” 

“Hold on, hold on,” Alistair said, holding up a hand and squinting at the man suspiciously, “You somehow got a _golem_ control rod from some man in Jader?” 

“A bit suspicious, some might say,” Zevran chimed in cheerfully. 

“He said he got it from the golem’s owner, but to be honest, I don’t know if it will work. Hence the low, _low_ price? What do you say?” the merchant asked eagerly. 

“Let’s take it,” she said quickly, turning to the rest of the group, “It’s free, and if it’s not far, we can just take a detour there. And if it works, we have a _golem.”_

“I’m seriously starting to wonder if you just have an obsession with collecting the strangest people possible,” Amdir said to her flatly. 

“Well, if it’s not far. And a golem would be useful, I guess,” Alistair said, smiling at her. 

Amdir sighed, looking up at the sky, “If we took the guy that was trying to kill us, I guess we can try to get a walking stone statue,” he said finally. 

“Excellent!” the merchant said excitedly, handing over a stick with runes carved into it, “You’ll find the golem in a town called Honnleath. Just hold up the rod and say ‘Duleth gar,’ that will wake the golem up, so I’m told. I hope it works…” 

“As do I,” she said, accepting the control rod. 

(Honnleath. That really wasn’t far—and it was the town Cullen was from. She hoped his family had already managed to make it out before the darkspawn had arrived then. 

If not, perhaps this will be one more thing for him to hate her for.) 

“And if it doesn’t?” Amdir asked, with a sharp glance at the merchant. 

The merchant shrugged, “Maybe you could look up the fellow who owned the golem before. If he’s still around that is. Best of luck to you then!” 

He wandered off to find his mule, and she took out the atlas Alistair had given her to figure out how they were going to get to Honnleath to get a golem. 


	18. Trevelyan: Val Royeaux

Val Royeux is everything she expects and more. The towers are built of beautiful white and blue stone as befits the seat of the Chantry’s power, red banners are elegantly draped across the roofs, golden lions are everywhere, plants blossom at every corner, and the people are dressed in the height of fashion, with delicate high-heeled shoes, light, gorgeously bright dresses, brilliantly embroidered tunics, and of course, elegant masks adorned on every face. Quite honestly, even if it had been just been her and Cassandra, they would have stood out simply for the lack of a mask. Of course, with a dusty, shabbily dressed Solas trailing them (who actually seems to be enjoying himself, or at least looks less dour. It could be the brilliant sunlight, or it could be the fancy Orlesian cakes they had bought after she had stopped at the stand. She declines to eat one; her throat still closes when she sees the beautiful, delicate creations. It almost seems a travesty that Andi and Oscar are not with her, here in the sunlight), and a happily scribbling Varric at her side (“I might try writing a political thriller next. This is great material!”), not to mention the way Cassandra herself towered over the rest of the crowd or even the way the staff on her back seemed to part the crowds, they probably would have stood out no matter what. 

The only people besides them not wearing masks are the Templars in their helmets (“Bucket heads,” Oscar’s voice murmurs in her ear) and the clerics in their tall hats, all gathered at the far side of the market in front of a mob. (Can she cast a static cage large enough to contain all of them? She has still not plumbed the depths of the strange reservoir of mana the Mark seems to have given her; she’s not sure what that means. She hasn’t mentioned it to anyone, still carefully taking sips from lyrium potions under Cassandra’s watchful eye. So far, it hasn’t been a problem; she doesn’t know what she’ll do if it becomes one. By then, it may be too late)

The cleric mother who seems to be in charge exhorts the crowd to mourn their most beloved Divine and points directly at her as the murderer.

“Behold, the so-called Herald of Andraste! _Claiming_ to rise where our beloved fell,” the cleric spat out, glaring at her venomously, “We say this is a _false_ prophet! The Maker would send no _mage_ in our hour of need!”

She completely agrees with the cleric mother (even if the Maker would send a mage, surely there were more appropriate ones than _her,_ filled with the ashes of her grief and ambition), but given the nervous energy of the crowd (it could easily turn into a mob, and that would be disastrous), she pulls her back ramrod straight (her mother had had her balance a book on her head and walk across the ballroom over and over until she could twirl and not even have the book wobble), lifts her head, and fastens her most imperious look (modeled after her mother, practiced for years in the College of Enchanters and her own students) on the cleric. 

“Whatever you think I am is unimportant,” she said coldly, “The important thing is I am not the Divine’s murderer; her real killer is still out there, free as a bird. We do not have time to argue; we need to close the Breach, find the perpetrator, and put an end to this madness.”

“It’s true!” Cassandra cut in, “The Inquisition seeks only to end this catastrophe before it is too late!”

“It is already too late!” the cleric shouts at them, making a cutting motion with her hand as the Templars began to clank towards them (this is not good), “The Templars have returned to the Chantry! They will face this ‘Inquisition,’ and the people will be safe once more!”

The Templars draw closer, and all of them already are beginning to inch their hands over to their weapons when one of them strides over to the cleric and punches her in the head. The crowd (her and all of her companions included) gasp, (what in the _Maker’s_ name), the dark-skinned Templar who had been beside the cleric mother tries to hurry to the cleric’s side, but is stopped by a gray-haired Templar. 

“Still yourself,” he said, grabbing the other Templar’s arm, “She is beneath us.”

She finds her voice and calls out, “You’re not here for the Inquisition?”

The gray-haired Templar turns toward her and sneers, “As if there were any reason to.”

He begins to walk away, but Cassandra quickly steps into his path, “Lord Seeker Lucius,” she says, inclining her head respectfully, “It is imperative that we speak to—”

“You _will not_ address _me,”_ the Seeker (the _Lord Seeker_? This could be worse than she even thought) said coldly, not even looking at Cassandra.

Cassandra stopped and stared at the man in confusion, “Lord Seeker?” 

“Creating a _heretical_ movement, raising up a _puppet_ as _Andraste’s_ prophet,” he snarled, finally turning to look at Cassandra, “You should be _ashamed_.”

He then turned to face the crowd, “You should _all_ be ashamed! The Templars failed _no one_ when they left the Chantry to purge the mages!” he turned slightly to point at Cassandra and the rest of their group, “ _You_ are the ones who have failed! You who’d leash our righteous swords with doubt and _fear_! If you came to appeal to the Chantry, you are too _late_. The only destiny here that demands respect is _mine.”_

So, even the Lord Seeker has gone mad. That is just wonderful. 

She crosses her arms in front of her (the important thing is to keep the frightened crowd from turning into a beast that will attack them), “If you’re not here to help the Chantry, then you’re just here to make empty speeches,” she said coolly (inside, she is far from calm. When this is over, she wants a dark room and soft blankets and maybe some plants. There is a _legion_ of Templars here, and she is not the Champion. She cannot magically fight her way out). 

The Lord Seeker’s sneer grows somehow more pronounced, “I came to see what frightens _old women_ so, and to _laugh.”_

“But Lord Seeker,” the dark-skinned Templar spoke up, quietly walking forward, “What if she really was sent by the Maker? What if—”

“You are called to a higher purpose,” the Templar who had punched the cleric mother in the head said sternly, “Do not question.”

“ _I_ will make the Templar Order a power that stands alone against the Void. _We_ deserve recognition. Independence!” the Lord Seeker declared, “You have shown me _nothing_ , and the Inquisition…less than nothing.”

He turned to face his legion (and her hand went for her knife), “Templars! Val Royeaux is _unworthy_ of our protection! We _march_!”

And for the second time in an Age, the Templars leave Val Royeaux. The crowd murmurs in panic (she has to admit that although she’s glad they didn’t turn and attack their little group, she’s almost as horrified as the Orlesians at the dereliction of the Templars’ duties. Where are they even marching _to?_ The White Spire had always been their main headquarters; what other fortress did they have?)

Varric cleared his throat, glancing at the stricken Cassandra, “Charming fellow, isn’t he?”

“Has Lord Seeker Lucius gone _mad?”_ Cassandra demanded at the backs of the Templars to no response except a mournful look from the dark-skinned Templar who had spoken up earlier. 

“Do you know him very well?” she asked as the murmuring crowd began to disperse. 

Cassandra gave a see-saw motion of her hand, “He took over the Seekers of Truth two years ago, after Lord Seeker Lambert’s death. He was always a decent man, never given to ambition or grandstanding. This is very bizarre.”

“Can he be reasoned with?” 

(The most important question for anyone)

“I hope so,” Cassandra sighed, “If not him, surely there are others in the Order who do not feel as he does. Either way, we will need to return and inform everyone”

As they turned to cross the market, the reverend mother called out, “This victory must please you greatly, Seeker Cassandra.”

Cassandra turned to face the bruised cleric, her jaw clenched in bridled temper, “We came here seeking only to speak with the mothers. This is not _our_ doing, but yours.”

The cleric snorted, gingerly beginning to rise to her feet, “And you had no part in forcing our hand? Do not delude yourself. Now we have been shown up by our own Templars, in front of _everyone_. And my fellow clerics have scattered to the wind, along with their convictions.”

The reverend mother turned to look Rasleanne in the eye, pain and desperation and anger all blended in her eyes, “Just tell me one thing: if you do not believe you are the Maker’s chosen, then what are you?”

“As I said,” she said steadily, “Someone who can help close the Breach and end this madness.”

The cleric let out a breath, “That is…more comforting than you might imagine. I suppose it is out of our hands now. We shall all see what the Maker plans in the days to come.”

“May the Maker and his Bride watch over us all,” she says heartfelt, and then idly taps her fingers against the lyrium potion at her side, “Will all of you continue to denounce me?”

The cleric bitterly laughed, “We have already done so, and what good has it done us? Val Royeaux in a state of panic, the Templars _leaving…_ now it falls on us to select a new Divine if we can and leave the next step up to her.”

Cassandra snorted, “Provided such selection is even _possible.”_

The cleric sighed, looking down, “I truly don’t know. Any Revered Mother who could have followed Justinia _died_ at the Conclave. What becomes of us and your Inquisition is in the Maker’s hands now.”

She nods at the Revered Mother (at the very least, they didn’t have the Chantry itself working against them now. Even with the dregs of their leadership left, they could have closed many a door and incited a mob against them if they had really tried. True, now the Templars were set against them, but she had never expected that would be otherwise) and begins to move across the market when an arrow goes flying right past her head and embeds itself against the cobblestones by her feet. 

“ _What was that?”_ Cassandra snarled, sword and shield already out and ready. 

“There’s a note attached to it,” Varric pointed out, grabbing the arrow, pulling it up, and glancing at the piece of parchment attached to it before handing it to her. 

She carefully takes it (and tries to not show how her hands are shaking or how shallow her breathing is or how she wants to do nothing more than throw up a barrier and shake because the last time arrows had gotten so close, Andi had _died_ ) and glances at it. It’s written in a large hand, with random doodles scribbled across the margins. 

_People say you're special. I want to help, and I can bring everyone._

_There's a baddie in Val Royeaux. I hear he wants to hurt you. Have a search for the red things in the market, the docks, and 'round the cafe, and maybe you'll meet him first. Bring swords._

_Friends of Red Jenny_

On the back of the parchment is a crude map with areas of the market marked out. The closest one is at the docks, so she hands the parchment to Cassandra (she’s mostly managed to get her trembling under control), and begins to walk over there. 

“’The Friends of Red Jenny?’” Solas asked, with an eyebrow raised as he read the letter over Cassandra’s shoulder. 

“Guess they wouldn’t be wandering the wildernesses where you were, Chuckles,” Varric commented, “We had some in Kirkwall. Weird group; never really knew what their end goal was. Still, they hired us to clean up the streets of the gangs, so not really that bad.”

“I don’t like this,” Cassandra said grimly, as Rasleanne reached into some of the nets by the docks to fish out a red handkerchief, and unwrapped it to show a hastily scrawled note and a key. 

“Who doesn’t like scavenger hunts?” Varric protested as they moved toward the pavilion that was next marked on the map, “Unless they’re in caves with spiders. Somehow Hawke always ended up dragging us there. Or the Bone Pit.”

“You just said that we don’t know what the intentions of this group are,” Cassandra argued as Rasleanne spotted a piece of paper painted red in a corner and turned it over to show another note and a map.

“It could not hurt to simply take a look,” Solas pointed out as they climbed the stairs to the last location marked on the map. 

“I agree,” she said as she grabbed a red sock tucked into one of the bushes and drew out a torn, ornate letter with a time, “After all, we can probably use all the help we can get.”

(Besides, a mysterious group called the Friends of Red Jenny—it sounded a bit like something Oscar would make up on a whim. He had constantly renamed his group of little minions, one day calling them the Lightning Thieves, the next, the Mages of Friendship and Glee, and then the next, the Council’s Bane. 

She wondered if Marcel was looking after them now, as much as he could. She hoped he hadn’t let them wander into her greenhouses; Cleo could get peckish. She had left him detailed instructions about how to take care of her baby, so hopefully, all was well.)

Cassandra frowned, but didn’t protest her statement, so they bought some food and drinks, and settled in to wait for nightfall. They got some odd looks, but a few stopped by their table to inquire if she was the Herald of Andraste. She would state that she was with the Inquisition, and one or two merchants pledged themselves to their cause. Others approached Varric, asking if he really was _the_ Varric Tethras, and when he bemusedly said yes, they would inevitably whip out a copy of _Hard in Hightown_ for him to sign, much to Varric’s delight, Cassandra’s noises of disgust, and Solas’ quiet amusement. (She likes the book too, but not as much as the _Tale of the Champion_ )

Once the sun sets, they approach the location on the map, walking into a large courtyard, and she ducks as an Orlesian man throws fire at them. He struts around and arrogantly proclaims how much effort it must have taken to find him and how his efforts will ultimately bring the entire Inquisition crashing down. She has no idea what’s going on, but she and Solas have already put a barrier up, and Cassandra looks ready to charge when suddenly, the guards next to him have arrows through their chests, and a blonde elf girl wearing an odd ragged assortment of clothing steps forward, shoving one of the dead guards to the ground, aims her bow at the noble and says cheerfully, “Just say, ‘What’!”

“What is the meaning—”

The girl puts an arrow through his throat, and at the spurt of blood that follows, the girl scrunches her nose up in disgust, “Eugh. Squishy one, but you heard me, right? Just say ‘ _What_.’ Rich tits always try for more than they deserve.”

She wrenches the arrow out of the noble and makes a face at it, “’Blah, blah, blah! Obey me!’ Arrow in my face!”

(She—death has followed her, ever since the Conclave—perhaps ever since Ostwick Circle’s Rebellion, but she will never get used to it. She knows that everyone has their own coping mechanisms about it, but she’s not sure what to make of this girl)

The girl turns back to face them, “So you followed the notes well enough. Glad to see you’re—you’re kind of _plain_ really. All that talk, and then you’re just—a person. I mean it’s all good, innit? The important thing is: you _glow_? You’re the Herald thingy?”

“I glow, yes,” she states, waving her gloved left hand at her, “What exactly is going on here?”

“No idea, I don’t know this idiot from manners,” the girl said with a shrug, “My people just said the Inquisition should look at him.”

(She didn’t even know him? But it was true that this person had not seemed the savory sort)

“Your people? City elves?” Solas asked. 

The girl laughed, wrinkling her nose a bit at the bald elf, “ _No._ People people. Name’s Sera,” she pointed at a crate at the side of the garden, “This is cover. Get round it. For the reinforcements. Don’t worry. Someone tipped me their equipment shed. They’ve got no _breeches,”_ she said with glee. 

Rasleanne blinks, but obediently walks over to the crate while a bunch of guards come running up, and they really do have no breeches. Unfortunately, they do still have their swords. 

“Why didn’t you take their _weapons?”_ Cassandra yelled as she ran straight into the fray. 

Sera didn’t bother answering, too busy loudly laughing while easily jumping around, shooting arrows. Varric joins in, Solas casts an ice wall, and she lifts her staff and summons down a static cage that shocks the rest of the guards into immobility. When all the guards are either dead or unconscious, Sera cheerfully brushes the blood off of her cheek and slings her bow back on her shoulder. 

“Friends really came through with that tip. No _breeches,”_ Sera said, dissolving into giggles. 

(She has to admit, even though taking the _swords_ would have been more helpful, the guards had been hardly at peak form, trying to cover their more delicate areas while attempting to fight. And it had been amusing. It had been a long time since she had seen pranks in play)

“So, Herald of Andraste,” Sera said, turning to her, “You’re a _strange_ one. I’d like to join.”

“Your enthusiasm is much appreciated, but who are you people?” she asked, carefully putting her staff back on her back.

“I’m not ‘people.’ But I get what you want,” Sera said, nodding, “It’s like this.” 

She explains that the Friends of Red Jenny are basically commoners, servants and the like who get tired of being mistreated and look for ways to get back at their high and mighty lords and masters. (Sounds as good a cause as any) She offers to use them to help her, besides battling at her side. 

“Look, do you need people, or not?” Sera asks, hands on her hips, “I want to get everything back to normal. Like you!”

She nods and smiles (Oscar would have loved her), “Welcome Sera. And your Friends.”

“Yes!” Sera cheered, “Get in good before you’re too big to like. That’ll keep your breeches where they should be. Plus, extra breeches because I have all these…you have merchants who buy that pish, yeah? Got to be worth something.”

Solas raises his eyebrows, and Cassandra frowns a little, but Varric just shrugs and slaps Sera on the back and asks her where she learned to shoot. The next day they set off for Haven, Sera an excited blur, hopping on and off the wagon and doing cartwheels. The Ferelden elf girl is an interesting traveling companion, nattering about, bringing in a voice that isn’t Varric’s, as much as she loves his stories. Cassandra softens toward her a bit, having less of a frown on her face and more bemusement as the days go by and Sera’s enthusiasm doesn’t wane. On the other hand, Solas and Sera don’t really seem to get along. At one point, Solas had tried talking to her in elvhen, and the girl had blown raspberries at him and had laughed mockingly, and later that night, Solas’ bedroll had been full of lizards. He got back at her by talking about how difficult it was to tell if ancient dormant arcane gifts happened to lie inside of her, to which Sera had shuddered and scampered off. She didn’t seem to like magic much. 

Odd, because Sera seemed to have no problem with _her_ , and she was not only a mage, but had a weird glowy green mark on her hand that closed Fade rifts. Then again, given that Sera seems to sincerely believe she’s the Herald of Andraste, despite her attempts to deny it, simply scoffing and asking who else has a glowy mark to save the world with. Still, Sera doesn’t treat her with any special reverence, which she would be thankful for if it didn’t involve occasionally waking up with her boots tied together and landing straight on her face. She takes to checking her stuff every morning for traps and pranks, a habit she hadn’t really had to dust off since she had started going regularly to classes and Oscar had laid off. (It’s halfway between having him back and what having a little sister would have felt like, she supposes)

When they get back to Haven, Josephine, Mother Giselle, and Cullen all arrive to help them unload the wagon of supplies and to hear what happened at Val Royeaux. All of them look horrified when she tiredly informs them of the Templars all defecting from the Chantry, Mother Giselle sighing and looking to the heavens, Josephine with a furrow in her brow, and Cullen who looks about as angry as she has ever seen him. 

“What are they _thinking?_ ” he demands, jaw and fists clenched (she tries to steady her breathing, but her hand drifts toward her knife still), “Surely there have to be some who disagree, who see reason—”

“Because Templars are so reasonable,” she snaps, before quickly shaking her head and holding up a hand as his face falls (damn the man; she has to remember that he has done nothing here, whatever his past, and it would not be good to make the Templar commander of the Inquisition forces angry at her), “Forgive me, it has been a long trip.”

He gives her a quick smile and nod (if he would just trip up at some point, it might be easier for her) and continues, “The Templars have to help us close the Breach! The Order was founded to fight against things like this!”

“We must first convince the Lord Seeker to bring the Templars out of exile,” Mother Giselle said slowly, “Not a simple task it seems.”

Josephine was already scribbling on her clipboard, “I will try and contact the noble houses and ask them if they know where they have gone. They will surely not be pleased to hear of the schism, and some will mostly likely be willing to help us.”

“I will see if we can get in contact with any of the Templars,” Cullen said grimly, “I can’t believe all of them would go along with the Lord Seeker’s madness.”

(She thinks Josephine will find answers long before Cullen will. After all, didn’t all the Templars, including him, go along with Knight-Commander Meredith’s madness?)

“Er, is this a bad time?” 

She turned to see Issala standing there, flanked by a group of qunari mercenaries, all easily looming over their little group, all carrying weapons that looked the size of a small tree, and more than a few with stark white war paint brushed across their faces. (She will have to thank Josephine for negotiating the deal to get this company basically for free for a month. The Valo-kas company was _terrifying;_ the Inquisition was so lucky their ambassador was so adorable)

Sera went still by her side, goggled at Issala, and whispered, “From the north right? ….woof.”

“No, this is fine,” she said quickly, elbowing Sera (was her mouth hanging open?), “Is this your company?”

“Yep, this is the Valo-kas company,” Issala said with a big grin, “Guys, meet the Herald of Andraste, Lady Rasleanne Trevelyan.”

“Just Rasleanne, please,” she corrected as she waved and they waved back, wreathed in smiles (despite bristling with weapons, they seemed a cheerful bunch). 

“I hope you find the accommodations to your liking, Captain Adaar?” Josephine asked worriedly, walking forward. 

“Our quarters are lovely, Ambassador Montiliyet, thank you,” Issala said breathlessly, bending over the ambassador’s hand and leaning in to kiss it

An arrow shot right past Issala’s ear and embedded itself in the target across the field, and Leliana came striding in, smiling and slinging her bow back on her back, “Oh silly me, I thought the target was closer,” she said sunnily

“Leliana, be careful,” Josephine scolded, turning toward Leliana who was still smiling at a wide-eyed Issala, “What would have happened if you had hurt Captain Adaar?”

“Oh, that would have been _terrible,”_ Leliana said with a smirk, and then turned to look at Rasleanne, “I have heard about the Templars. I will send my spies out and see if they can find anything.”

“Thank you,” she says sincerely and shoots a sympathetic glance at Issala before beating a strategic retreat (while she thought it was adorable that the qunari mercenary captain was love-struck with their lovely ambassador, she wasn’t about to get in the line of fire of Sister Nightingale. Right now, Issala was more useful alive to them than dead, so hopefully that would shield her from the more lethal attentions of Leliana). 

Her bed is welcome after a week of bedrolls on the lumpy ground or squished in the wagon, and she promptly changes into the comfortable beige pajamas that she had claimed (she still has no idea where they came from, but Maker are they comfy) and falls into cushioned bliss. 

When she wakes up, she’s still muzzy from sleep, so it takes her a few seconds to notice the piercing green eyes that are staring at her. She shrieks and frantically jumps back in her bed, her hand quickly pawing the side of her bed for her staff or knife, when her eyes finally adjust to the dark and she sees a green-eyed, dark-skinned elf girl with white hair shaved at the side, a pattern like branches tattooed across her cheeks, bow and arrows on her back, who is holding up her hands and backing away to the other side of the room. 

“Sorry, sorry!” the girl says quickly, “I just wanted to talk with you—you’re the Herald, right?”

“I’m Rasleanne Trevelyan; why are you in my _quarters_?” she demands, finally getting ahold of her staff and pointing it at the girl. 

“I wasn’t sure the guards would let me talk to you,” the girl explains, ruefully scuffing the ground with her foot, “But bad idea to sneak in on you, I know. But still, I _had_ to talk to you.”

“Why?” she asks, still keeping her staff trained on the girl. 

The elf girl sighs, “There was—our First? The First of my clan, it’s kind of like the next in line to take over leadership of our clan for our Keeper—she went to the Conclave to see what was going on. We don’t know if she actually got in though, so I came to see if she’s—here? Our Keeper didn’t want me to, so I snuck here—but I had to see if she’s—alive.”

She looks at the girl wringing her hands and slowly sets her staff down by her side (she looks and sounds sincere, her voice full of worry for this First), “I haven’t seen many Dalish around the camp, but I just got back last night. We could ask around?”

“Oh, thank you!” the girl said, eagerly walking forward, hand outstretched, “Her name is Tamlen Lavellan—although she may not be going by that name right now. Maybe Ellana? She really liked that name. I’m Rian Lavellan, by the way.”

“Pleasure to meet you,” she said, shaking her hand.

(It’s a long shot, but she, if anyone, should know about searching for siblings even if they are most likely dead. And nothing would make her happier than a happy ending to this girl’s story, even if she can’t have hers) 

She draws on a coat and her boots, tucks her knife in her belt and sets her staff on her back, and then they walk out into the camp. A Dalish elf mage couldn’t be hiding among the soldiers, and Leliana would have vetted her own scouts thoroughly, so they walk through the stables, the forge, and the medical tents, but there is still no sign of this Tamlen, and Rian has begun to wringe her hands again and bite her lip. She tries to put on a smile for the girl (if her friend had gone into the Conclave, there is no way she survived that, no more than Oscar had), and tells Rian that maybe Quartermaster Threnn has seen someone lately. While searching for the prickly quartermaster though, they pass by the apothecary and Rian stops and stares at Solas. 

“…is he a mage?” Rian asked, beginning to walk over to him, “Tamlen probably would have talked to him.”

She reaches out to stop the girl then pauses. It’s not a terrible idea, and quite honestly, if Solas had met an incognito Dalish mage, would he have said anything? He didn’t seem to have any love for the Dalish, given the Dalish mage they had met in the Hinterlands who had called him a flatear, but he rarely volunteered any information that didn’t have to do with the Fade, so it was possible?

“Andaran atish’an, hahren,” Rian called out respectfully as they drew closer, placing a hand over her chest and inclining her head. 

Solas’ eyebrows rose but he nodded at them politely, “Andaran atish’an, da’len.”

“Have you seen a Dalish mage? She’s my clan’s First—has June’s vallaslin, green eyes, long brown hair?” Rian asked hopefully, “Her name is Tamlen.”

Solas shook his head, “I do not believe I have seen such a person. Is not Tamlen a boy’s name?”

“Shhh, you can’t let her catch you saying that,” Rian said automatically, before covering her mouth with her hand, “I—I’m sorry, just—should never have let her—should have been there—you’re sure you haven’t seen her?”

“I’m sorry, but no,” Solas replies softly, and Rian lets out a small wail and turns around quickly, but she can see the girl’s shoulders shuddering as she tries to hold in the sobs, and Solas is worriedly at her side, hands reaching out, when Issala walks over and frowns. 

“What did you do to this poor girl?” she demands, glaring at Solas as she grabs Rian and promptly pulls her into a tight embrace, “Shhh, it’ll be okay….well?”

“I did nothing to her,” Solas protested grimly, eyes flickering between the crying Dalish girl, the glaring Issala, and Rasleanne 

“She—lost someone at the Conclave,” she says softly, and Issala’s gaze focuses back on the Dalish girl crying in her arms and softens. 

“You poor thing,” she murmurs, carefully beginning to guide her away from the apothecary, “Let’s get you out of the cold, hm? Your loved ones wouldn’t want that.”

Rian nods jerkily, and Issala leads her away. (She’s glad someone knows how to handle this—she’s still trying to deal with her own. Half the time when she found a snake in her bed, she opened her mouth to yell at Oscar before realizing it had to be Sera. It won’t ever be Oscar again.). 

Solas is frowning after them, and she quickly says, “Don’t worry, I think Issala will take good care of her.”

“She is Tal’Vashoth, is she not? Those who have rejected the Qun?” he asked, fingers tapping against his staff. 

“I think so?” she replied, tilting her head (what did that have to do with anything?). 

He waved a hand dismissively, “Forgive me, I am wool-gathering. That girl…where is the rest of her clan?”

“She mentioned that her Keeper didn’t want her to come here. She sounds like a Free Marcher though, so maybe they are still across the sea?” she surmises. 

(Like the remnants of her own family. Had Marcel received her letter by now?)

“They traveled far,” Solas commented before turning his inscrutable gaze upon her, “You seem to be most skilled at recruiting new companions.”

She shakes her head, “It’s not due to any skill of mine, it’s because they think I’m the Herald of Andraste.”

“And you do not?” he asks, looking at her intently.

She snorts, “A true prophet of the gods would have been able to save everyone at the Conclave; it’s a poor kind of savior who simply steps out of the ashes of the dead.”

“It is a difficult job,” Solas said, glancing up at the Breach, “And so often, the stories change and obscure the real person. After all, do you think your Chantry tells you the full story of Andraste herself?”

“Probably not,” she admits with a shrug, “Still—I am no Herald.”

“Don’t you know? It is what the people believe that matters,” Solas said wryly. 

“They can believe what they like, but the truth remains the same,” she insists, “I am Rasleanne, not the Lady Herald.”

“As you say,” Solas says with a slight nod of his head. 

(She never knows what’s going on in the elvhen mage’s head. He always has a calm expression and rarely raises his voice; his worry at Rian’s tears being the first time she had really seen him react to anything. Oh, he had vaguely approved of them helping the farmers and refugees in the Hinterlands, but you would have to be somewhat monstrous to not want to help those people. And of course, he loved the Fade; he could talk hours about the Fade, as she had found out, asking him about what he had seen. Some of it was certainly interesting, but it seemed like he lived more in his sleep than in real life at times.)

She checks the Singing Maiden Tavern, and Rian is bundled up in blankets while Flissa makes her hot chocolate and Issala has managed to find more blankets to pile on top of the Dalish girl.

“You’ll need warmer clothes,” Issala declared, looking the girl over critically. 

Rian, her eyes still red, blinked owlishly at Rasleanne, “I’m sorry, I—we went together on the voyage, but Tamlen thought it would be easier to only sneak one Dalish elf in, at least at first, and she was the First, so it was her responsibility—stupid, like almost all of her ideas. I was supposed to protect her.”

“If you had gone, you would be dead as well,” she said gently, crouching down next to Rian’s side, “There was nothing you could have done.”

(Empty words, she knows. It’s the same ones she repeats to herself over and over, and she still can’t bring herself to completely believe them.)

Rian curls the blankets tighter around her shoulders, “Maybe,” she says with a small voice, “Still—I could have maybe—gotten her out—I don’t know.”

“Hot chocolate,” Issala said firmly, taking the finished drinks from Flissa with a nod of gratitude, and setting one in front of Rian, “Drink.”

Rian took a tentative sip before blinking at the chocolatey concoction, “This is good!”

Issala beamed, “My mom’s special cocoa blend. Always makes things seem slightly better.”

Rian nods enthusiastically, taking a bigger gulp of the drink, “Maybe—could I bring some to hahren? I want to apologize for bothering him…”

“You mean Solas?” she asked. 

Rian nodded, and Issala snorted, “Forget about that guy, he’s bad news,” the mercenary captain said darkly, handing Rasleanne a mug of hot chocolate while sipping on one of her own, “He made you cry.”

“I was already about to cry,” Rian pointed out, finishing off her mug of hot chocolate. 

“He shouldn’t have made it worse,” Issala replied, taking a prim sip of her own drink. 

“You didn’t trouble Solas,” Rasleanne reassured Rian, closing her eyes as the warmth of the hot chocolate filled her (it really was quite good), “He’ll be okay.”

“Still, I should do something nice for him,” Rian said seriously, looking at a frowning Issala, “Not your mother’s lovely cocoa, but maybe—I could catch him a rabbit? Do they have rabbits in Ferelden? What does he like?”

She shrugs helplessly, “He likes the Fade and sleep?”

“The Fade? He is a somniari—a dreamer?” Rian asked, eyes wide, “I thought he was just a hedge mage!”

“I just know he’s our Fade expert,” she says (she has heard of somniari before; it was a talent that was supposed to have died out except in Tevinter, but Solas’ village had apparently been in the middle of nowhere, so maybe it was just well-hidden).

“A somniari,” Rian says, her voice filled with wonder, “Imagine all the things he must have seen! Places he’s been! Tamlen is going to love—” 

The girl chokes off her words, biting her lip as tears fill her eyes again. Issala quickly pulls her into another hug, “Shh, shh, don’t think about that, it’s going to be okay…”

Out of habit, Rasleanne begins to softly sing the Chant (the Canticle of Trials, _and nothing that He has wrought shall be lost_ )andoh she knows Rian is Dalish and probably has no love for the Chantry, but the girl listens to her, and when she takes a breath, also begins to sing an elvhen song (it’s pretty but sad; it sounds like a mourning song), their voices harmonizing together oddly well. 

It’s nearly nightfall by the time Rian has dropped off to sleep, head propped on a mound of extra blankets and sprawled across a tavern bench, and Issala swears to keep an eye on her while she goes to find Leliana or Cassandra or Josephine (Issala glances eagerly up at that name, but then shakes her head and resolutely pulls up Rian’s fallen blanket to cover her back) to tell her that they’ve got a Dalish archer as part of their Inquisition now and to get her some lodgings. 

Leliana isn’t in her tent, and Josephine isn’t in her office, and it’s too late in the day for Cassandra to be out whaling on training dummies (not that she would put it past her), so she checks their quarters. Not there either, but it seems as good a chance as any for her to return Cullen’s handkerchief since the advisors share quarters (she feels somewhat guilty that she gets her own, but at least no one else gets woken up by her gasps as she vaults out of nightmares or her weeping). She quickly places it on the small table that is teetering with books and reports (at this rate they’ll need to get Cullen an office as well) and turns to leave before her eye catches on a small chessboard set up and hanging off the corner of the table. It would be a shame for it to fall, so she quickly drags a chair over and sets the board there. 

The game has barely begun, with only about 3 moves in, and it looks as though it’s black’s turn to move. She examines the board before carefully moving her bishop forward 3 spaces (she’s always played black; first because Edmund had always insisted on going first, and later because Marcel had been the one to set a worn chessboard in front of her and start their first game, and they had just kept that going over the years). 

“You play?”

She whirls around to see Cullen entering the room, glancing eagerly from the board to her. 

“I—yes. I’m sorry, I was just here to—I was looking for Leliana or Josephine or Cassandra, there’s a Dalish archer who wants to join us—and I returned your handkerchief,” she stammered out, pointing at the table. 

“Oh, thank you. You didn’t have to, you know,” he said, examining the board, “A Dalish archer? That’s fantastic; I’ll tell one of my men to find quarters for her. This was not a bad move, did you play often in the Circle?”

“Yes,” she answers warily, eyeing the door (she had the worst luck), “She’s in the tavern right now, I’ll go let her know?”

Cullen nods and then tentatively asks, “Is there any chance—I know both you and I are very busy, but Leliana is a poor opponent. I would like to play against someone who enjoys the game?”

“ _Leliana_ is a poor opponent?” she asks incredulously (the Left Hand of the Divine, Sister Nightingale, bad at _chess?)_

Cullen chuckles, “She cheats. Often, not that it helps her. What do you say, Rasleanne?”

(It’s a terrible idea; she didn’t even want to see him to give him back his handkerchief, and now she’s going to play chess with him? But—

She misses it. She played almost every day against Marcel, pieces clacking peacefully across the board, and so many things have changed, but she would like to see that game at least restored, even if it is against a completely different opponent. An ex-templar at that. 

Who knows, it would even be interesting to play against someone different after all these years)

“Alright,” she says with a nod, “I would like to play.”

“Excellent!” he smiles at her, setting down more reports on top of the teetering pile, “Tomorrow after dinner then? I should be done with drills.”

“Alright,” she agrees, and quickly walks out the door back to the tavern and the comfort of a snoring Rian and Issala with more hot chocolate, this time for the soldier who Cullen had dispatched to help Rian find some quarters to live in. She helps move the bundled up Rian and tries not to feel like she’s betrayed anyone (Oscar might frown, but oh Maker would Andi have shouted) by agreeing to play chess with a Templar.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And Tamlen is always the tragic friend :D


	19. Amell: Honnleath

Honnleath has already been overrun by darkspawn when they get there, the houses sitting forlornly empty, doors hanging wide open, some bodies strung up from the rafters (have the rest of the people managed to run away, or are they too late the way she was too late to the Tower?). There are still a few groups of darkspawn here and there to clean up, which they quickly do (on one hand, it seems to be getting easier, fighting together, now that they basically know the rhythm of how everyone else fights, but on the other, there are always more darkspawn) and in the center of the square, next to a basket of birdseed, there stands a large statue engraved with runes and crystals, and that must be the golem. 

It’s smaller than she had expected (the ones she had read about in the libraries of Kinloch Hold were supposedly the sizes of small huts), but Wynne still cautions her that awakening it may not be wise. She shrugs off the older mage’s worry (they have come this far, they might as well see if the control rod works), lifts up the control rod, and says clearly, “Dulef gar.”

Nothing happens. 

She looks down at the control rod in her hand, shakes it, and frowns, “It’s not working,” she says sadly. 

“Maybe the merchant remembered the activation phrase wrong?” Amdir suggested, tapping one of the crystals on the golem lightly. 

“Yeah, maybe one of these houses here has notes on it?” Alistair asked, smiling at her as Barkspawn woofed his assent. 

“Pashara, we have wasted enough time here,” Sten said, sheathing his sword with more force than usual.

“If we get the golem to work, _you_ won’t have to carry the heaviest stuff around anymore,” Amdir pointed out, glancing at the giant bag slung on Sten’s back that contained all of the extra potions and random armor and weapons they had scavenged (the tents, spare armor, and other less portable items had all been stashed in Bodhan’s cart). 

Sten seemed to consider this before slowly nodding, “Fine.”

Most of the homes are empty, with a disarray of items left behind (there were only two bodies strung up and she hasn’t seen any others; maybe the rest of them got away. Maybe Cullen’s family is safe)

One of the houses they enter has a basement, and they hear noises beyond the door, so they carefully go in, Alistair kicking the door down with his shield up, her quickly casting an ice wall to block the group of darkspawn from charging them, and Amdir leaping over the ice wall, with Zevran not far behind him. As they (literally) clean house, she notices that they are fighting in a room full of shelves of books. She freezes and smashes a few darkspawn with her staff to get closer to some of the shelves; some of the books are tomes of magical theory she remembers from the Tower, but most of the books were on the Deep Roads. Who had lived here? She knew that most people couldn’t afford regular books, let alone books that she had never seen in the Circle libraries. (Cullen had never mentioned this treasure trove from his youth—

But maybe he had never seen it either. Or perhaps they had never been as close as she had thought after all.)

The darkspawn cleared, Morrigan comes to join her at the bookshelf, looking over the tomes with interest. 

“An interesting thing to find in this backwater,” she comments, looking over Iluuser’s shoulder at the volume detailing theoretical maps of the Dwarven kingdoms before the First Blight, “This must be the house of the owner of the golem, is it not? Only a mage would own such things—”

There is a scuffle and a cut-off scream further down the hall, and all of their heads turn to the door past the stairs. 

“This is like one of those ghost stories Shianni used to tell to terrify Soris,” Amdir grumbles as they hurry down the hall and pass a body pierced by a spear (were there survivors hiding here?), “Why are we hurrying _toward_ creepy noises?”

“Because we’re more terrifying than anything we can find in dark, dank basements?” she suggested brightly as Sten broke open the door to reveal a room filled with more darkspawn and a group of people cowering behind a shimmery, purple magical barrier. 

(So the mage that owned the golem was still here?)

Sten slashes his way through the horde (he must really want the golem to help him carry the stuff), Barkspawn at his heels, pouncing on any darkspawn that got too close and dragging them to the ground. She flips her staff as some darkspawn crowd around her, casts a quick mind blast, then freezes them all, and smashes them as Alistair takes care of any that she’s missed. Turning around as slashes from the darkspawn blades heal across her legs and arms (Wynne was a gift from the Maker to be sure), it looks as though Amdir, Zevran, and Leliana have taken care of the rest of the horde, many darkspawn lying around with knife wounds through their backs or arrows through their skulls. Morrigan blasts the last one standing with lightning, and they turn to look at the wide-eyed people crowding around the barrier. 

“By the Maker, we’re saved!” one of the women exclaims. 

“You weren’t sent by the bann, were you?” a blonde ponytailed man asks eagerly, “To save us?”

She shakes her head, “No, we’re Grey Wardens.”

(May has well foster some goodwill about them, given what Loghain was saying about them)

“A _Grey Warden? Here?_ Thank the Maker for our luck!” the man says with a big smile, “But if you weren’t sent by someone, why are you here? If you don’t mind me asking.”

“We’re here for the statue outside,” she said, gesturing toward the exit with her staff. 

The man frowned, “The statue? Why would—oh. I think I see. You bought the control rod, didn’t you? You came here looking for _Shale_.”

(They had named the golem? But after all why wouldn’t they. Shale. Was that what the golem was made of?)

The man held up a hand, and the barrier lowered (an apostate? That would be ironic) and the others ran away toward the exit (it should be safe; they had cleared out all the darkspawn in the village before they had begun searching the houses). The man walked toward them, shaking his head. 

“That damnable golem has brought us nothing but trouble. My mother sold the rod, years ago after it killed my father, and _good riddance_ ,” the man said bitterly

“Killed your father?” Amdir asked sharply. 

(A homicidal golem on the other hand, would be a bit inconvenient)

“My father was Wilhelm, mage to the arls of Redcliffe and a hero in the war against Orlais. And _what did he get_?” the man asked angrily, “One day my mother found him outside the tower, with so many broken bones she could barely recognize him, and _Shale_ standing over him, just like it is now. My father deserved _better_ than that. But if you really want to wake _Shale_ up, well, it’s yours now.”

(Wilhelm. She does think she has heard of a mage of that name from her books on the war against Orlais. She does remember there being a golem anyway; that had been the much more interesting part. There had been rumors that there was a very old golem of Tevinter make in the most guarded vaults of Kinloch Hold, but she had never seen it. She wonders if it had been smashed in the chaos. So this Wilhelm had settled in Honnleath? Cullen had never mentioned it—

But he might have not even known. And the current Cullen probably would not like hearing about it.)

“Unfortunately, the control rod doesn’t seem to be working,” she said, taking it out of her satchel and holding it up.

“My mother might have passed along the wrong command phrase when she sold the rod. She said she never wanted to see Shale active again,” the man said with a shrug before glancing at the door on the other side of the room, “Look, I’ll tell you the command phrase—but I need your help first!”

“What else is new,” Amdir said with a sigh, not even bothering to re-sheathe his knives. 

“I know you already saved my life, and I’m _grateful_ , but my daughter is inside the laboratory!” the man said, pointing at the door at the far side of the room, “She was afraid and ran too far in before I could stop her. I don’t know how she made it past my father’s defenses. One of the men tried to go after her; he was killed. But—you could find her, couldn’t you?”

“How do you know she’s still alive?” Amdir asked, already nearly at the door. 

“I—don’t, it’s true,” the man admitted, looking down and biting his lip, “I’m terrified that something’s happened to her, and she’s lying in there injured! I can’t leave until I know for certain. Surely you understand that?”

(She had climbed a tower of nightmares with the slim hope that her makeshift family had been alive, so yes, of course she does)

“We’ll look,” she said, giving Morrigan a hard look when the other woman opened her mouth in protest (she had somewhat managed to mollify her during their trip to Honnleath by asking for stories of the Wilds, but she may have undone her efforts again. Still, a life was worth Morrigan’s displeasure)

“You _will_? Thank the Maker!” the man said, smiling widely and clasping his hands together. 

(She hopes the girl is still alive.)

The door opens to creepy tunnel filled with spiderwebs that she lets Morrigan light on fire (she sincerely hopes that whatever giant spiders created these webs will not make an appearance. Morrigan’s shapeshifted form aside, she hates spiders. They have far too many legs). When the smoke has cleared, they proceed through the hall to a laboratory with dead body (must be the man that had gone after the girl before). As soon as they step into the room though, there is a hiss and unearthly shrieks fill the air, and four shades rise from the ground ( _those_ were Wilhelm’s defenses? That was tricky, dangerous magic. What was he even keeping down here that warranted that risk?). 

After the abominations of the Tower, dispatching some shades is simple business (she doesn’t have to wonder who they were), with her blasting them with lightning while Alistair and Sten hack at them. Once all of the shades are dead, they pass through another tunnel, this one with roots hanging down from the ceiling (how deep under were they?) and planks laid across gaping chasms to get to the room on the other side. 

This room is strange: in the center of the large room there are tiles with fire leaping across them (there is magic here, and she feels it like oily grime on her skin), and right in front of that, is a girl talking to a ginger cat (Thank the Maker, she’s alive. She can save this one girl at least). Barkspawn growled at the sight of the cat, and she put her hand on his head (Pity, she rather liked cats. Mr. Wiggums, the Tower mouser, had been adorable, and both she and Anders had doted on him. Perhaps it was best Mr. Wiggums passed a few years ago; she hates to think of what would have happened to the poor mouser if it had still been alive during Uldred’s madness) 

“Oh look! Someone’s come to play!” the girl said happily, standing up, “You _have_ come to play, haven’t you? We’re playing a guessing game. It’s better with more people.”

“‘We?’” asked Amdir, looking around, “Who’s ‘we’?”

“Me and Kitty of course!” the girl giggled, looking at the cat, “Anyway, you should go if you’re not going to play; Kitty finds you distracting.”

(Something was…not quite right here. She didn’t like this place; it felt strange. And Barkspawn wouldn’t stop growling, and was this the regular reaction of a child who had been recently terrified out of her mind?)

“Let’s go,” she urged, bending down to look the girl in the eye, “You can bring Kitty along too, if you like.”

“I can’t go!” the girl said, shaking her head, “Kitty says she can’t come, and I’m not leaving her. She’d be lonely.”

“You are so kind, Amalia. I would miss you dearly if you left,” the cat said in a woman’s voice tinged with an echo of a guttural growl, its eyes suddenly glowing purple. 

(A familiar haze of purple, like the desire demons of the Fade. What had Wilhelm been _doing_ down here?)

Her staff flared to life in her hand as she heard the rest of her companions also unsheathing their weapons, and the cat stretched, looking oddly smug as Amalia didn’t even stop smiling. 

“Step away from the cat, Amalia,” she said calmly despite the ice growing across her body. 

“Oh bug-whistles,” Amalia said dismissively, not looking away from the cat, “You’re just no fun! I’m going to ignore you now.”

“Nothing you say will convince Amalia to go with you,” purrs the demon, “She loves _only me_ now. I am her friend, while you are just a stranger.”

“We’re not leaving without Amalia,” she said tightly, pointing her staff at the cat as Amdir eyes the corners of the room, looking for some way to surprise the cat she supposes (can they kill it before it possesses the girl? It seems to have already wormed its way halfway into Amalia’s head and made her a thrall)

The demon tilted its head to the side, staring at her staff, “It seems we are at an impasse, so let me propose a…compromise of sorts. Release me, mortal, and let me have this girl. Let us return to her father and leave this place _forever_.”

“I’m not letting you possess her,” she said shortly. 

“That’s such a _crude_ way of putting it,” the demon sighed, “I do not wish to harm Amalia. I merely want to see your world through her eyes. Is that so _wrong_?”

(She _will not_ let the girl become a meat puppet dancing on the strings of this demon. She was too late to save half the tower from being turned to abominations; she _can’t_ let another one be turned right in front of her.)

“We’ll let you go, but you can’t have the girl,” she replies steadily, glancing at the tiles behind the demon (that must be the binding mechanism; surely there was a way out of this). 

Amdir gives her a look, and she shrugs hopelessly (the demon is too intertwined with Amalia’s thoughts; it’ll be like the Templar in the tower all over again if they attack her now, and she can’t kill a child)

“Hmmm…but I do like this one,” the demon complained, looking at Amalia.

“I like you too Kitty!” Amalia said blissfully

“ _But_ if it means escaping this prison, I am willing to leave on my own,” the demon said, “I agree to your terms.”

The demon pads closer to the puzzle, “The mage’s wards hold me in this chamber, and only a mortal may disarm them. There is a trick to releasing the ward, but I do not know it. Perhaps you will succeed where the girl failed.”

(Would she have kept Amalia here until she wasted away to bones and nothing?)

“Oh this is so exciting!” Amalia exclaimed, standing up again, “Kitty is going to be free!”

They puzzle it out and move the tiles around while Amalia in the background keeps chattering away about how she had always wanted a cat and how perfect and pretty Kitty was (had the demon possessed an actual cat or had just taken on the form that would endear herself the most to the child?) It seemed as though there had to be a link between the corner tiles, so they manage to move around the tiles to create a path of fire linking the two, Leliana calling out directions from her perch above, Wynne keeping a close eye on Amalia, and the rest of them moving the tiles about. When the path was created, there was a shimmer at the door, and she can feel something slipping away (the oily grimy feeling of this place remains however)

“I can _feel_ the magic _fading,_ ” the demon said ecstatically, “ _Oh_ , I had forgotten what it feels like not to be _caged.”_

“Kitty? What’s happening?” Amalia asked, puzzled and looking around (the demon is distracted; perhaps her hold on Amalia’s mind is weakening as well).

“A _wonderful_ thing my dear, for _both of us_ ,” the demon said with a sly look that she does not like at all. 

“We had a deal,” she reminds the demon, carefully walking closer to it. 

“I have changed my mind,” the demon said haughtily, “I _like_ the girl; I do not think I will find another like her. 

“Oh, so I get to go with you after all?” Amalia asked happily. 

“Do not cross me, demon,” she warns, pointing her staff at it, ice crawling up her neck, “You will regret it.”

“Eugh, I will take her anyhow!” the demon snarled, “She is _mine.”_

“Kitty? You’re _scaring_ me!” Amalia said, backing away, “I won’t let you inside of me! I _won’t_ ” 

Amalia ran out the door and down the tunnel, and the demon snarled, lashed its tail, and _shifted,_ and now it was a desire demon, horned and handsome, broad-shouldered with very little clothing (it looked…oddly familiar, but that was the point after all of a desire demon), and she blasted it with ice while Wynne threw a stonefist at it, and Zevran stabbed it in the back as Amdir slashed at it from the front. Alistair hits it with a holy smite (when did he manage to get lyrium? The only drafts they had taken from the Circle were the diluted doses meant for mages, not Templars), and it howls and dissipates. 

“Well, that was interesting,” Zevran comments, helping Amdir up from where the demon had tossed him, “So that was a desire demon? _Fascinating.”_

“Yes, I especially liked the part where it tried to _kill us,_ ” Amdir said, brushing the dust off his leathers. 

“Ah, but at least it didn’t harm the child,” Zevran said cheerfully.

Amdir hummed and gave him a considering look and then glanced at the door, “Well, hopefully the kid made it back up there.”

They cross the creepy laboratory again to the ground floor, but not before Amdir and Zevran unabashedly go through all the chests in the rooms and pick up a few crystals and gems (“We think alike, my friend!”). Wilhelm’s son is ecstatic, “You did it! You _freed_ her! _Thank you so much!”_ the man said, embracing Amalia

“I’m sorry I ran away daddy,” Amalia said, looking at the ground, “I was so _scared.”_

“It’s alright, butterfly; you’re safe now,” Wilhelm’s son said gently to Amalia, “All the bad creatures are gone.”

He turned to her, “The phrase to activate Shale is ‘dulen harn,’ if you still want that _bloody_ thing. I wouldn’t if I were you”

He then turned back to his daughter, “Now we should go, and quickly,” he looked up at them and smiled, “Thank you again; we owe you our _lives.”_

They walk out back to the statue, and she holds the control rod and says the words. At first there is nothing, but some dust seems to crumble off of the golem, and then Shale’s head twitches, and with a rumbling noise, it wrenches itself out of its pose. 

It sighed looking at all of them, “I knew that the day would come when s _omeone_ would find the control rod.”

It squinted at her and gave an even deeper sigh (this was _fascinating_ ), “And _of course_ it is _another mage._ That is what it is, yes? _Yes._ Just my luck.”

“One wonders that you wouldn’t be grateful to the one who allowed you to stretch your legs, golem,” Morrigan said sharply

“Hmm, another mage I see. Charming,” the golem said sarcastically (if it could roll its eyes, she was certain it would have), “I stood _here_ in this _spot_ and watched the _wretched_ little _villagers_ scurry around me for, oh, I have no idea how long. Many, _many_ years.”

“Oh you poor dear!” Leliana exclaimed, “That would be…really, really boring.”

Alistair nudged her side, saying quietly “And the villagers had no idea they were being watched? _Creepy”_

“I was just beginning to get used to the quiet too,” the golem said with another deep sigh (how did it breathe?), “Tell me, are _all_ the villagers dead?”

“No?” she answered. 

(So, how psychotic was it? So far it just seemed sarcastic, and she could happily listen to it complaining for hours because she’s _never_ heard of a golem that wasn’t just an obedient, mute servant)

“Some got away, then? How _unfortunate_ ,” Shale said with distaste.

“You didn’t care for them, then?” Alistair asked carefully. 

“Familiarity breeds contempt, as they say, and after thirty years as a captive audience, I was as _familiar_ with these _villagers_ as one could _possibly_ be,” Shale said with disgust, “Not that I wished their fate on them, no, but it did make for a _delightful_ change of pace.”

“Are you called Shale?” she asked.

“Perhaps. I may have _forgotten_ after all the years of being called ‘ _golem_ ,’” Shale said, its face somehow scrunched in unhappy memory, “‘Golem, fetch me that chair.’ ‘Do be a good golem and squash that insipid bandit.’ And let’s not forget, ‘Golem, pick me up. I tire of walking.’”

(She has to admit that she hadn’t thought of that, and she is a tiny bit sad that that won’t be happening. There’s a lot of walking, and thank the Maker Enchanter Curtis used to make them do morning runs all around the grounds or else she would have collapsed of exhaustion by now.)

Shale paused, confused “It—does have the control rod, doesn’t it? I am awake, so it…must…”

She glanced at the control rod in her hand and back to Shale, “Is something wrong?”

“I _see_ the control rod, yet I feel…” Shale trailed off then looked at her, “Go on. Order me to do something.”

She blinked and pointed at Wilhelm’s house, “Alright, walk over there?”

“And…nothing? I feel _nothing_. I feel no compulsion to carry out its command,” Shale said, its voice blanker than it had been so far, “I suppose this means the rod is… _broken?”_

She let ice begin to grow over her skin again, “Shouldn’t you be happy about that?” she delicately suggested.

“Hmmm. I suppose if I can’t be commanded, this means…I have free will, yes? It is simply…what should I do?” Shale said, looking around the abandoned village, “I have no memories, beyond watching this village for so long. I have no purpose…I find myself at a bit of a loss.”

It looks directly at her, “What about _it_? It must have awoken me for some reason, no? What did it intend to do with me?”

“Fight darkspawn?” she suggested (they can mention carrying heavy things later; she thinks Shale would not want to hear about that just now)

“I see. _Wonderful_ ,” Shale said sarcastically, “I suppose I have two options, do I not? Go with it, or … go elsewhere? I…do not even know what lies beyond this village.”

“You’re welcome to come with us,” she said eagerly as Amdir sighed next to her. 

“Are…you _certain_ you want to bring that— _thing_ with us? It could be _dangerous_. And _large_ ,” Alistair said delicately, glancing from the golem back to her. 

“Portable battering ram,” Amdir pointed out, strapping his knives back onto his back

Alistair nodded, mock-seriously, “Good point. Better it than me, anyhow.”

“I will follow it about then—for now,” Shale warned, “And yes, I am called Shale.”

“I am Iluuser, it is a pleasure to have you join us Shale,” she said happily.

(A real live _golem_! That could _talk!_ )

“This should be interesting,” Shale said dryly. 

It watches them gather any spare weapons they can from the killed darkspawn (arrows are always welcome, and occasionally they do find a healing potion), and only huffs a little when she asks if it would mind carrying some of the spare armor. 

“So this is Grey Warden business? Rescuing small children, killing darkspawn and demons, recruiting strange people?” Zevran asked as they left the village. 

“Don’t forget, Tuesdays are for ritual dismemberment,” Alistair says, sharing a grin with her. 

“And we recruited you a few days ago, and Iluuser here needs to top collecting an Antivan Crow,” Amdir said with a roll of his eyes. 

She mock-tried to hit him with her staff, “Hey, Shale is very—”

There was a panicked squawk, and they turned around to see Shale over a blood puddle of what seemed to used to be a chicken. The golem shrugged. 

Amdir turned back to her, “Shale is very…?” he prompted. 

“Useful,” she said stolidly 

(So Shale didn’t seem to like chickens. That was fine, they’d just keep it far away from them. It wasn’t like they saw many chickens anyway; she feels like that the first one in weeks. Still, it would have been nice to roast and eat it instead of it now being a smear on the ground)

They make camp, Bodhan’s eyebrows shooting into his hairline when he saw Shale lumbering behind them while Sandal happily claps and says, “Sparkly!”

Sten and Alistair bring in some wood, and she lights it, and Zevran and Amdir bring back hares they managed to catch in the woods, so they have food other than the bread they had taken from the Tower (another good thing about Shale was that the golem obviously didn’t need to eat anything, so Morrigan couldn’t complain about that). 

Still, it seems sad for the golem to just be standing at the corner of the camp by itself, so she finishes off her portion of rabbit, and grabs some of the crystals and gems that they had taken from Wilhelm’s laboratory to talk about. 

Shale looks completely disinterested as she approaches, but when she takes out the crystals, the golem’s features seem to brighten up, “I see it found some augmentation crystals; I was not even aware it knew about them… _well done_!”

She smiles and hands the crystals over to the golem (this was the most cheerful she had seen it), and Shale slots them into different carved recesses on its body (so that was what those carvings were for). 

“So, what does it think?” Shale asked anxiously, stepping back a bit, “They don’t make me look any wider, do they? I find I am already too wide as it is.”

“They’re very pretty. And sparkly!” she reassures the golem, looking up at the glowing blue crystals (they really were quite pretty. Rial would have been ecstatic, and even Elaine would have found them lovely as well—

Of course, she could introduce neither to Shale now.)

“I think so as well,” Shale says happily, “I think it should find some more as _soon_ as possible. I want to _glitter_ from ear to ear—so to speak.”

“Morrigan could help you there,” Leliana commented, walking over and admiring Shale’s crystals, “That woman is like a magpie; she always manages to find something shiny.”

Shale looked the archer up and down and then said, “The sister has interesting footwear.”

Leliana perked up, excitement in her eyes, “Oh? You like shoes, do you?”

Shale shifted, “My mass is considerable. Some cushioning on my feet would be ideal, but I doubt such footwear could be made.”

“Hmm,” Leliana pondered, glancing down at Shale’s feet, “I could see some nice, thick sandals being made. With very tick leather straps. Oh yes, that could be done! Perhaps we could find some cobbler who could give it a try! What color would you want?”

(Leliana looked more excited than when she told stories, and she _loved_ telling stories. She guesses the archer must have had a lot of time to contemplate pretty shoes in the Lothering Chantry. Still, an odd place to grow to love fancy footwear)

Shale hesitated, “…surely the color is unimportant.”

“In fact, the color is very important,” Leliana tsked, “That, and picking a shape that makes your ankles look slender... and you could use some help there, I fear.”

“I... have thick ankles?” Shale asked, looking down at its feet. 

“It's all right. I don't like my thighs,” Leliana said easily, “What's important is working with what you have.”

“Hmm. Very well. I wish my shoes to be red,” Shale declared. 

“Ooh! Bold choice! We'll have to remember that!” Leliana said happily before turning to her, “And you? Surely you do not always want those hideous Ferelden boots.”

She glanced down at her boots. True, they weren’t pretty _at all_ , basically being lumps of fur, but they did keep her feet dry and warm, “If we weren’t tromping across all of Ferelden I would like some nice slippers,” she said, thinking of the few Orlesian books that Elaine had managed to find in the library (Elaine had always had the most lovely shoes; embroidered slippers that she had bartered with the merchants for and kept clean even in the greenhouse), “Perhaps blue or green, with silver embroidery.”

Leliana nodded, “That would be very nice, especially in blue if you wore the actual Warden uniform. And just because we are hiking across Ferelden does not mean you could not have better, more fitted boots!”

She laughs, glancing down at her feet again (Elaine had _hated_ her boots, even when she had pointed out that as a battlemage, they made perfect sense), “Perhaps. If you see such a pair that I can somehow afford, do point them out to me.”

Leliana happily agrees, and she leaves the archer and the golem in talks about Shale’s hatred of birds (perhaps Leliana can somehow convince the golem out of it, although given that Shale was literally made out of stone, that might be difficult). When she walks back to the fire, she sees Amdir laughing, Alistair blushing, and only catches the last snippet of conversation. 

“What about licking lampposts in winter?” she asks, sitting down next to Alistair. 

Amdir bursts into cackling (wow, this was very different), and somehow Alistair manages to turn even redder. 

“Nothing!” Alistair hastily said, “I—it’s—”

“You see,” Amdir cut in, managing to stop laughing but his eyes still brimming with mirth, “I’ve licked a couple of lampposts in winter in my life, but Alistair here hasn’t ever. Not more rounded, curvy lampposts or more…stiff ones.”

She glances from Alistair who has buried his red face in his hands and to Amdir who is grinning, “…which of you two managed to come up with such a strange euphemism?” she asked, raising an eyebrow

Alistair raised his hand, not bothering to pick his head up, and Amdir grinned and pointed at him, “He was raised to be a gentleman, you know,” Amdir mock-whispered at her, “Waiting for his true love.”

“So what if I am?” Alistair demanded, glaring at Amdir still red-faced, “What’s wrong with that?”

“I think it’s sweet,” she said, smiling at Alistair (so he had never—well, it was a bit of a surprise. Neither the Templars nor mages of the Tower made any secrets of their conquests, but…if she had had more of a choice, she would have liked to have waited as well. Not that the one she would have waited for wanted her any longer), “We should all be so lucky.”

Alistair gaped at her (was it really that surprising?), while Amdir rolled his eyes, “Well, it’s good _you_ think so,” he said, still grinning. 

She whistled and pointed at Amdir when Barkspawn happily trotted up, “Go sit on Amdir, Barkspawn.”

“Iluuuuuser,” Amdir complained as Barkspawn sat on him and happily drooled on his face, “Eughhhh.”

“If you must talk about licking lampposts, try Zevran perhaps,” she said with a wave of her hand, leaving to take a bath (she’s still dusty from the laboratory)

The water in the stream is cold, and she hisses as she submerges herself and then quickly scrubs, but at least it washes away the sweat and dust, and she quickly dries herself off with a spare scrap of cloth she had taken from the wagon for this reason and casts a cleaning spell on her robes before pulling them back on. She’s still carding her hand through her hair, trying to get it to dry when she sees Alistair standing near one of the trees, shifting his weight back and forth. 

“Alistair?” she asks, “Were you looking for me?”

Alistair turns around quickly, “Yes—well, sort of—I was just making sure—who knows what Zevran is up to, and Amdir pointed out you were probably bathing, so I thought I’d just make sure he didn’t come this way.”

She glanced around the dark forest, “…but how would you make sure he couldn’t sneak around you?” 

Alistair grinned, “This place is full of nettle bushes and other thorny, prickly things. I was pretty sure this was the only way to the stream.”

“Thank you for guarding my virtue, Alistair,” she said with a laugh (that was a first), “Although, why are you so sure that he’d come sneak up here?”

“He… _ogles_ you _all the time,_ ” Alistair said with an annoyed frown. 

“He ogles _everyone_ all the time,” she gently corrected him, smiling up at him, “He may even be bothering Wynne as we speak.”

Alistair laughed, “…he is just joking around about that, right?”

She shrugged, “I have no idea, honestly.”

As they slowly began to walk back to the camp, he turned to her and said seriously, “Hey, you don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to but—I’m here if you want to talk about the Circle. Or the nightmares. Or anything else.”

She sighed, “I’m dealing with it,” she said quietly, looking down, “Some days are worse than others, but…I’ll keep going.”

(What else could she do? Collapsing would be a disgrace to the dead’s memory and would help nobody.)

“Still, it’s not good to be alone,” Alistair insisted, looking her in the eye. 

She smiled up at him (it was true though, spending time with him and the rest…it wasn’t the same as the Tower, but it helped), “I have you and Barkspawn and Amdir, don’t I? As long as you are happy with a mage companion?”

(Cullen had been—up until he hadn’t)

“I told you I was a terrible Templar,” Alistair said with a grin before his gaze softened, “Besides you’re not just a _mage,_ you’re Iluuser first. You have a weird obsession collecting the strangest people we can find, for some reason you insist on finding a bathing spot every place we go, you like stories and maps, and you’re like a force of nature on the battlefield, except prettier.”

“You think I’m pretty on the battlefield?” she asked, her eyebrows rising. 

Alistair laughed and looked down, “You _know_ you’re pretty, don’t make me say it.”

She looks down as well as the heat on her cheeks rise (she…yes, she knew that she was pretty, but no one had ever said she was pretty while _fighting_ ), “Even when I go and recruit the strangest people?” she asks jokingly. 

“Especially then,” he answers her, his gaze warm. 

She doesn’t think, and her hand is already softly on Alistair’s cheek, and she is rising on her tip-toes to try and get closer, and Alistair’s eyes are widening, and his hand has curved around her hip—

“Ah, pardon me, I see you two are occupied.”

She whirls around to see Zevran lazily lounging next to a tree and avidly staring at them.

“You two can keep going, I’ll enjoy watching,” Zevran said cheerfully.

(How long had he been there?)

“Did you need something?” she demands as Alistair’s hand belatedly drops from her hip (she had liked its solid warm presence), and she tries to keep the blush from rising to her cheeks. 

“Amdir would like you to command the dog to stop sitting on him,” Zevran said, “Of course, I’m sure he would understand if you two—”

“Let’s go,” Alistair said quickly, grabbing her hand and pulling her away from the smirking Crow and back towards the camp. He’s still red-faced when they get there, and Amdir gives them some odd looks as she commands Barkspawn to rise and cuddles her face into his fur. With a click of her tongue, her loyal mabari follows her into her tent and submits happily to being her pillow that she can bury her still-warm face in. 

(This feeling—but this was too soon, wasn’t it? Was she just getting her feelings for one blonde Templar mixed with another? That was a convenient excuse but—

This was a different feeling. Being with Cullen had always been comfortable; he had talked to her about different books, she had smiled at him, and he had blushed, and she had been happy. If he had never made a move for anything more, she still would have been happy, and she would not have tried for anything else. But Alistair—

He made her laugh, even on the worst days. He had listened to all of her stories of the mages that had been lost, and he was willing to hear more. He had fought at her side and had protected her back as much as she had protected his. He had given her an atlas and thought she was pretty on the battlefield. And she wanted him badly. She would have closed that last distance between them if Zevran had not interrupted, and—

She wasn’t a mage of the Circle anymore; if she wanted to take a lover, she could do it openly, even one who had nearly become a Templar. But—

She wasn’t sure about this. She had been acting on instinct, but since that had been interrupted, she wanted to think about it some more. People die in Blights, even Wardens, maybe especially Wardens, and she’s not sure she could take it if she lost yet another loved one.

And since when had Alistair become one of those to her?)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yaaaay, finally got to the romance bit, right?


	20. Tabris: Camp

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And at long last, Tabris gets a snippet

Barkspawn was heavy and kind of smelly and really, really drooly, but it had all been worth it just to poke Alistair into action, even if it was just blushing and outright staring at Iluuser. 

(It was the saddest, slowest courtship he had seen, and he had grown up with _Soris_ who had bribed both him and Shianni multiple times to go investigate his crushes. If he didn’t do anything, the archdemon would be dead and the Blight over, and Alistair would _still_ have not done anything besides moon after Iluuser when he thought she wasn’t looking and stare sadly at that rose he had gotten Iluuser’s healer friend to cast a preservation spell on. The man needed a push, and he had provided it) 

“I hate you,” Alistair said, giving him a baleful look, “Did you have to tell _her?”_

“She was bound to find out anyway,” he scoffs, attempting to shift his weight onto his leg that’s quickly falling asleep, but Barkspawn’s sheer sprawled mass is making it difficult, “Lots of _experienced_ mages in the Circle, aren’t there? Pretty sure she’d be able to tell the difference.” 

Alistair’s face dropped in horror, “Wait, you don’t think—is she expecting—expertise?” 

He laughed and even Barkspawn seemed to huff a bit, “I think you’ll be fine if you ever make a move,” he said honestly, attempting to stretch (Iluuser seemed fond of the ex-Templar; her smiles seemed a lot softer and more genuine and less scary when directed at Alistair. And Mythal knew, Amell had brought the first smile to Alistair’s face that he had seen on that man’s face after Ostagar), “There’s only one person she mentioned being more involved with, and by all accounts, nothing physical happened between her and that ass.” 

(Fine, he understood that that curly-haired shem had been through a lot, and Creators knew that having some demon prance around wearing Iluuser’s face probably hadn’t endeared her towards him, but he still shouldn’t have tried to convince her of all people to kill the survivors of the Tower. She had already been as brittle and hollow as he had ever seen her, reminding him far too much of Alistair right after Ostagar. He remembered the wild look that Alistair had had looking at his sword and hiding it until the worst of his grief had seemed to subside, and so he had also carefully kept Iluuser away from high places and poison and knives. He wasn’t sure what either of them had been capable of at those points. At least with Iluuser, Alistair had been there to help as well. Right after Ostagar, Iluuser had still been in recovery, and Morrigan had been no help at all. It had been bad.) 

“Anyway, help me get Barkspawn off of me?” he asked, trying to push the mabari off and only succeeding in making Barkspawn’s head loll a bit (and that big doggy grin was beginning to look a bit smug) 

“You completely deserve that,” Alistair said, grinning at him and patting Barkspawn on the head. 

“Come oooon,” he pleaded, “Or at least, go get Iluuser so she can command him off me.” 

“I don’t see why I should,” Alistair replied cheerfully, settling back on the log, “You were having fun watching me squirm; I think it’s payback time.” 

“Her highness is probably bathing again,” he commented, quickly changing tactics, “You don’t want Zevran sneaking up on her, do you? You should probably go stand guard. And catch her when she’s done.” 

(He had seen Zevran wander off into the opposite direction from the stream in the woods awhile back, but Alistair had been busy trying not to die of embarrassment at the time, so he doubts the other man noticed.) 

Alistair frowned, glancing at the forest, “…I better check on her.” 

“You do that,” he replied as Alistair stood up, “Just don’t try sneaking a peek; you won’t endear yourself to her, and she’ll probably turn you into an ice statue just on principle.” 

Alistair reddened as he stood up, “I _wouldn’t,”_ he protested, striding away. 

Well, at least he had gotten Alistair pointed in the right direction. And hey, who knew, the two of them, all alone in the woods, could finally lead somewhere, right? 

“What do you think, Barkspawn?” he asked, looking at the mabari, “You think Alistair will finally have the guts to confess to your master some of his more than friendly thoughts about her?” 

The mabari gave him an exasperated look, and he sighed, “Yeah, I know. He might actually die of embarrassment first.” 

“And I thought it was just a tall tale that all you Fereldens talked to your dogs,” Zevran commented, grinning and taking Alistair’s seat across the fire from him. 

“You owe your life to a dog, so you really can’t talk,” he said, managing to point at the Antivan elf over Barkspawn’s bulk. 

Zevran shrugged, “True, true. So, pray tell, why is the dog sitting on top of you?” 

“I _may_ have been teasing Alistair a bit, and Illuuser thought I went a bit far, so here I am,” he explained with a sigh. 

“And here you are,” Zevran agreed, lounging back to look at him, “So, those two are…?” 

“Alistair pines after Iluuser, but doesn’t make a move, and Iluuser seems fond of him,” he summarizes, poking Barkspawn’s side (the last thing he needs is the mabari falling asleep on top of him; he may actually be crushed by his bulk). 

“Ah, I see. Is he hesitant because she is a mage?” Zevran asked, tilting his head to the side. 

He shakes his head, “No, it’s because he’s awkward. He’ll figure it out though.” 

(He may tease Alistair in front of Iluuser, but he’s not about to reveal Alistair’s virginity to Zevran. That would just be cruel. Besides, he was telling the truth. Or at least, he was hoping that if Alistair didn’t make a move soon, Iluuser would just pin him to a tree and climb him like one as well. That would work too.) 

“You want to go find them so Iluuser can order Barkspawn off of me?” he asked, wincing a bit as one of Barkspawn’s paws dug into his side. 

Zevran’s smile curled lavisciously, “Ah, but what’s in it for me?” he asked, looking at Amdir with hooded eyes, “You haven’t even said please.” 

He rolled his eyes (oh, Zevran was lithe and handsome, and his tattoos were intriguing, and he more than a bit resembled the desire demon they had seen in that Maker forsaken basement, but he hadn’t forgotten that the amiable man had been sent to kill them. Besides, based on Alistair’s and Leliana’s and Iluuser’s stories, it sounded like seduction was part and parcel of being a Crow. As much as he was tempted, Zevran wasn’t safe. 

Of course, the problem was that he didn’t even like safe.) 

“Please,” he said, staring Zevran in the eye. 

Zevran laughed and stood up, “Well, that did sound nice coming off your lips. I will go gather your fellow Wardens, and then we will see what else we can coax out of that mouth, hm?” 

The Antivan elf is good on his word, coming back with a smirk after a few minutes, trailing a red-faced Alistair who quickly drops the hand of an oddly absent-minded looking Iluuser. She clicks her tongue, and Barkspawn at long last steps off of him (he thinks his spleen has been permanently squashed), and she and the dog walk back to her tent without another word. 

“What happened?” he asked, looking at Alistair who was staring with the most longing look ever at Iluuser’s tent. 

“Welll, I may have—accidentally, mind you—bumped into your fellow Grey Wardens at a more delicate time,” Zevran says, with a somewhat apologetic shrug. 

“ _Seriously?_ ” he asked, staring at Alistair, “Andraste be praised, I thought you’d never get along to it. What are you still doing out here? Go join her in her tent!” he said, pushing Alistair toward Iluuser’s tent. 

“Yes, yes, Ferelden nights are quite cold, and I’m sure she could use some... _warmth,”_ Zevran said with a filthy grin at him. 

(That grin promised all kinds of things— 

Things that he wasn’t thinking about because sleeping with Zevran might well end with a knife in his ribs, and Shianni, not to mention Iluuser, will never let him live it down if that’s how he ends up dying.) 

Alistair dug his heels in (Creators, the man was heavy), “ _No_ , we didn’t—nothing happened—” 

“Did I interrupt you two before you had even _started?_ I am truly sorry, my friend,” Zevran said contritely. 

“Doesn’t matter, get in there and finish what you started,” Amdir insisted, pointing at the tent. 

Alistair shook his head, “No, I mean—she’s gone to bed, and I—we don’t know each other that well—” 

“We’ve all been traveling together for little over a month, and we just helped her save her old home,” Amdir pointed out, “What more do you two need to know?” 

“There’s still—” Alistair shook his head, looking across the woods, “Look, she’s probably sleeping now, and I’m not bothering her.” 

The blonde man quickly walked off before he could get another word in, quickly stepping into his own tent and shutting the flap. 

“Well, _I_ could use some warming up,” Zevran said, sliding a heated look at him. 

He laughs quickly (remember, it’s probably a joke or a ploy), and stands up, “Sorry, don’t trust you enough yet.” 

“Yet?” Zevran asks, giving him a bemused glance. 

(Dread Wolf take the man, he hadn’t meant to say that) 

“You heard me,” he says with all the false bravado he can muster, and quickly walks away to see if Iluuser’s latest acquisition is as strange as all the others. 

(Her last one was beginning to be a problem for him though) 


	21. Trevelyan: Storm Coast

There are still more things to be done in the Hinterlands, and she thinks that perhaps Rian will enjoy a change in scenery (much like Solas, the Dalish archer didn’t wear shoes, and she had no idea how she wasn’t getting frostbite in Haven. She had assumed Solas was using magic, but Rian was no mage. Plus, being away from the place of her friend’s death would be good), so they take the small archer with them. They help scout areas to put watchtowers, defeat and capture a bunch of bandit groups terrorizing the East Road (either they will work for the Inquisition or face the justice of the refugees. Almost all choose to take their chances with the Inquisition), close rifts, and clear out ravenous wolves that turn out to be led by a terror demon. 

Rian is a deadly archer, less flashy than Sera and with less tricks than Varric, but effective. She’s completely silent walking through the forest and has pinpoint accuracy (it seems all those stories about Dalish archers are true), which definitely comes in handy because she’s usually the one who brings back food for them to eat. 

(“It’s nothing,” Rian says cheerfully when she profusely thanks her for the deer she had hunted down, “This is a lot like being back at my clan. It’s nice.” 

She thinks it must be hard for Rian’s clan to have lost such a valuable hunter, but Rian assures her that she learned from the best.) 

Sera doesn’t like Rian much at first, snidely making comments about how friggin’ elfy she was, what with the tattoos and the no shoes and the talking to Solas in elvhen, but Rian looked like such a hurt kitten at those words that Sera starts making faces instead of comments instead. It probably helps that Rian is nothing but complimentary about Sera’s skill in archery, finding it amazing that someone could have learned so much about it on her own. 

Oddly enough though, given the circumstances of their first meeting, Rian quickly attaches herself to Solas, always addressing him respectfully as “hahren,” and asking for stories from the Fade whenever they have some downtime. Solas seems pleased that someone wants to hear all his stories (she tends to prefer Varric’s, they’re usually more cheerful), and has picked up the habit of making a place by his side at the camp fire at night. He even looks a little less grim and dour with her around. Of course, that could be because Sera hangs at Rian’s side, blowing raspberries at the bald elf and loudly going “blablabla more elfy shit,” when he tries to teach Rian more elvhen (he’s given up on teaching Sera). It’s hard to maintain a serious expression in front of Sera, especially when she’s detailing how to make bees woozy and then shove them all in a jar to explode in front of enemies, or how much fun it is to toss strange elixirs on herself that basically light her on fire and run at enemies. 

Sera has also decided that her name is far too long and that “Herald” is too formal, so she now calls her Razzmatazz. She protests that that is the same length as her actual name, so Rian decides to call her Razzy. It’s an improvement she guesses (no one calls her Lea here. Maybe in some ways that’s easier). 

By the time they get back to Haven, Rian seems better, laughing with Sera and eagerly seeking out Solas’ company. Issala quickly sweeps her away from the other elf though, asking Rian about the trip, clucking that she’s far too skinny, and insisting on finding her warmer clothes. 

She had hoped that after the weeks away, Cullen would have forgotten her agreement to play chess with him (they had played one game before she left, board set up in one of the storehouses of the Chantry for quiet, her trying not to bolt every time he frowned and reached out to move a piece. She hadn’t played especially well that game, her nerves far too jangled to be of use, but still he had smiled after he had toppled her king and had complimented some of her feints and asked her to play again after she got back), but after she gives her reports to all of the advisors, Cullen lingers and respectfully asks if she’s not too tired, he has missed playing chess with someone who doesn’t palm pieces off the board. 

So she goes again, and it starts to become a habit, playing at least one game a week with him. It’s…not as bad as she was expecting. Cullen really does seem to find the game relaxing, smiling more and leaning back in his chair more than she has ever seen him outside of the storeroom. And she has to admit, she finds plotting tactics and moving the pieces around and capturing the opponent’s pieces soothing as well; there’s a rhythm to a game that’s familiar and easy (and pieces that are sacrificed do not bleed), and she doesn’t know if that’s why he likes it, but she finds herself gradually settling down into her chair as well the more time passes by. 

(She still needs to be on her guard though, doesn’t she? He hasn’t done anything, but she hasn’t tried doing anything particularly rebellious either. Although, one could argue that just by existing as the so-called Herald of Andraste, she serves a symbol of rebellion against the Chantry, but he doesn’t seem to care about that either. She can’t quite imagine him at Kirkwall’s Gallows, but all she has to do is remember Oscar’s daily thanks to the Maker that his mother had sent all of them far from his birth-city and Andi’s hissed stories of the Gallows to remember that his smiles could very well be false) 

She’s walking out of a conversation with Leliana, having urged the Inquisition not to execute the traitor she had discovered among her scouts (normally she would all be for killing a traitor, especially one that has caused the death of one of Leliana’s most prized scouts, but they have few enough resources as it is. Death is final, and this Butler can still be of use, as long as he is apprehended and imprisoned first. It’s distasteful, but they have to use what tools they have), when an armored, short haired man approached her. 

“Excuse me, I have a message for the Inquisition, but I’m having a hard time getting anyone to talk to me,” he said with a slightly higher voice than she had expected. 

She nods at the man (hopefully not more bad news), “I can take the message, soldier.” 

The man salutes her quickly, “Cremissius Aclassi, with the Bull’s Chargers mercenary company. We mostly work out of Orlais and Nevarra. We got word of some Tevinter mercenaries gathering out on the Storm Coast. My company commander, Iron Bull, offers the information free of charge.” 

(Iron Bull? What kind of a name was that? And Cremissius Aclassi…that was a Tevene name, wasn’t it? He was far from home, but then again, so was she) 

Cremissius Aclassi continued, “If you’d like to see what the Bull’s Chargers can do for the _Inquisition_ , meet us there and watch us work.” 

(A tryout then. That wasn’t too bad; they could always use more forces. Provided that this wasn’t some kind of trap; it seemed a bit odd that one Tevinter mercenary would offer up a group of his fellow countrymen, but maybe they were just competition in the first place?) 

“Krem!” Issala called out, spotting them and walking over, “Got tired of your giant lummox of a captain and decided to finally join us?” 

Krem laughs and shakes his head, “Good to see you, Captain Adaar, but no. Here to offer our services to the Inquisition actually.” 

Issala pouted and slung an arm around the man’s shoulders, “You’re here to _poach_ from us, Krem? I’m hurt.” 

“Word is the Inquisition could use all the forces it can get,” Krem pointed out. 

“Fair enough, it’s not a bad job if you can get it” Issala said grudgingly, crossing her arms, “You certainly managed to find the right person to talk to about it anyway.” 

“Oh?” asked Krem, looking at her, “And who, may I ask, do I have the pleasure addressing?” 

“I am Rasleanne Trevelyan,” she cuts in before Issala can open her mouth (Sera liked to hang around the qunari mercenary captain, and Issala thought Razzmatazz was the best name ever, although thankfully, most of the time she just stuck to calling her Razzy). 

Not that it helps, as Krem’s eyes widen, and he dips into a small bow, “My pardons, Lady Herald. I hope I have given you no disrespect—” 

“You haven’t,” she quickly reassures the man, shooting a glare at Issala, “And it’s just Rasleanne. Tell me about your company.” 

“We’re loyal, we’re tough, and we don’t break contracts,” Krem says, quickly snapping back into his easy professional tone (thank the Maker, at this rate she was just going to hang around mercenary bands since they rarely called her Lady anything), “Ask around Val Royeaux; we’ve got references.” 

“Not as good as _us_ , but then again, they were only competing against _Orlesian_ mercenary companies, not good old Free Marcher ones,” Issala said with a small smirk. 

Krem rolls his eyes, and she holds up a hand, “What should I know about your commander?” 

“Iron Bull?” Krem asked as Issala snorted, “He’s a Qunari, bit like Captain Adaar.” 

“ _I’m_ Vashoth, but fine sure,” Issala said with a small frown and shrug, “ _I_ also wear normal clothing in cold weather instead of insisting on baring all, all the time.” 

(Well, that at least explained the name) 

“He leads from the front, he pays well, and he’s a lot smarter than the last bastard I worked for,” Krem continued, ignoring Issala’s asides, “Best of all, he’s professional. We accept contracts with whoever makes the first real offer. You’re the first time he’s gone out of his way to pick a side.” 

“We will travel there, when we can,” she says, mentally calculating how long it would take to get to the Storm Coast and how many people can be spared for the trip (the Storm Coast is not far from here, and they have been resting long enough from their trip to the Hinterlands that most of them should be ready to go. And if this Iron Bull was seeking them out personally, surely Josephine would be able to wrangle a good deal out of him). 

“Thank you,” Krem says with a smile, “We’re the best you’ll find.” 

Issala coughed, looking at him meaningfully. 

“—besides the Valo-Kas Company of course,” Krem amended with a grin, “They’re about as good as us, I guess.” 

“Sure you don’t want to join us, Krem? We pay double for overtime,” Issala wheedled. 

Krem laughed, “Thanks for the offer, Adaar, but no. I’m a Charger.” 

Issala sighed, “Suit yourself. One of these days we’ll convince you.” 

As Krem waved at them and walked away, she turned to Issala and asked “Isn’t your whole company qunari?” 

“Tal-Vashoth and Vashoth,” Issala corrected her, “And it’s not like that’s one of our requirements, it’s just that most people see our company and make that assumption. Besides, we’d love to have Krem. He has this absolutely _massive_ hammer, it’s more like a rock strapped to a stick than anything else really, and it’s awesome when he’s swinging it around in battle.” 

She raises her eyebrows, looking back at the far-away Krem (she had seen some of the weapons Issala’s company carried around, and it made sense that they all had swords and staffs and daggers that dwarfed her, but Krem looked normal-sized. How would he lift such a hammer?) 

“Well, I suppose I’ll see him and this Iron Bull and the rest of his company in action later,” she says. 

Issala scratches the side of her jaw, “You should probably know that their boss is Ben-Hassrath.” 

(Ben-Hassrath? The spies of the Qun? That was—ingenious actually, pretending to just be another qunari mercenary wandering around Thedas. Who would look twice at someone like that? But—) 

“Would that be a problem for your company?” she asked, looking worriedly at Issala, “Ben-Hassrath are spies of the Qun, right? Would he try to take any of you back?” 

Issala shrugged, “He tries to take on all of us, he’s going to have problems. We’ve had dealings with him before; he hasn’t caused any issues so far. And Shokraker nearly ordered me to launch a fireball at him the first time we all met, but he bought drinks for us all. Not that we drank them; could always have poison in them, and we don’t have the saar-qamek immunity that Ben-Hassrath have.” 

“We don’t have to take them if he’s going to cause this much trouble for you,” she said firmly. 

(They could use the forces—they could always use more forces, but it’s not worth it to cause infighting within their own ranks) 

“Nah, Inquisition needs all the help it can get,” Issala said, gesturing to where Cullen was drilling their soldiers (she’s glad to see that most of them seem to have mastered what a shield is for), “But you are taking me with you to the Storm Coast.” 

She blinked, “Are you sure? If you are needed elsewhere—” 

“Nothing my guys can’t handle without me,” Issala said easily, “We’re the best for a reason. Besides, I’m not letting you walk into a meeting with a Ben-Hassrath without someone who knows what they’re dealing with there. And someone needs to make sure Lady Montiliyet doesn’t get ripped off.” 

“I’m sure,” she said drily. 

“And I’ll bring my own sleeping bag, so you won’t have to worry about me taking up room in the wagon,” Issala continued, “Plus, you haven’t seen me in action yet, right? It’ll be fun!” 

She nods with a smile, “Thank you. I’ll be sure to write a glowing report for you to Josephine.” 

Issala’s mouth parts, and she would swear that stars have appeared in the mercenary captain’s eyes, “ _Really?_ Then I’m definitely going.” 

So they trundle to the Storm Coast with a qunari mage mercenary captain in tow. Issala is easy to get along with, quick to laugh and make jokes. She probably gets along best with Varric, the two of them easily swapping jokes and stories, trying to one-up each other in the tales of ridiculousness they managed to get involved in (Varric wins because Hawke seems incapable of staying still for more than a week without wandering into another mess that often involved spiders, but Issala has her share of exploits, the one with what should have been a standard escort job for a caravan of Orlesian nobles turning into fishing said nobles out of streams and blowing up bridges to cover their tracks being one of the best). Cassandra surreptitiously listens in on the stories, and the two of them seem to share a professional rapport (besides Issala’s questions about Josephine that she might think are subtle, but they’re really not; even Cassandra has a small grin when Issala sighs dreamily over how wonderful Josephine is, giving up a cushy diplomat position to be the Inquisition’s ambassador), easily drilling with each other in the early mornings. Sera likes to watch both of them while they fight, and Issala bears her interest with easy grace, flexing when asked, and confirming that yes, most qunari women did look like her. (Sera’s eyes glaze over, and she thinks it’s the longest she’s ever seen the girl so quiet). And in battle, Issala is a force of nature, throwing up fire walls and enormous fireballs with just a swing of her staff. She has never seen a qunari mage in action, but after watching Issala in battle, she would not want to meet another on the field. 

Issala is still protective over Rian, always checking her for injuries and scrapes after hunting or any battles (“You can’t be too careful”). She seems to have decided to take the Dalish girl under her wing, which of course causes some friction between her and Solas, who she still seems to be suspicious of. 

“I don’t know why you don’t like him,” she commented after the third time Issala had made sure her sleeping bag was firmly between Rian and Solas’ sleeping mats (was it because he was an apostate? But that made no sense, so was Issala) 

“He likes the Fade _way_ too much, and don’t think I haven’t noticed the way he’s been eyeing her,” Issala said darkly, balefully glowering at the fire where Rian was happily asking Solas for stories of Arlathan, “Like a wolf spotting a particularly sleek, pretty deer by itself. He’s way too old for her.” 

“Rian’s not exactly defenseless,” she pointed out, nodding at the bow still slung on Rian’s back, “And Solas wouldn’t go where he’s not welcome.” 

(To be honest, she wonders if Issala is just seeing things that aren’t there. She can’t think of Solas that way at all; he’s the scholarly expert on the Fade, and plus, he’s bald.) 

“He’s bad news, and she would be much better hanging around someone else,” Issala insisted, “Someone younger and with hair.” 

They arrive on the Storm Coast, and it lives up to its name, raining a cold, gloomy drizzle down on them while waves crash against the mountains. And true to their lieutenant’s word, a battle is raging between a varied band of mercenaries and a bunch of mercenaries with pointy hats (what was it with Tevinter and wearing pointy things), with Krem indeed swinging a giant hammer around (Maker’s breath, _how?_ ), and an absolutely gigantic qunari man with the largest horns she has ever seen (the name is suddenly _very_ appropriate) is a tornado of violence at the thick of the battlefield. 

Cassandra charges in as well, and Issala provides a helpful firewall to trap any mercenaries not caught up in the static cage Rasleanne had summoned. Varric, Rian, and Sera rain down more arrows than they would ever need, and the battle is over fairly quickly, no small thanks to the Chargers, without who some of the Tevinter mages would have been some trouble (even with Cassandra, facing another mage head-on tended to give them trouble. She had mainly been trained to strike quickly before anyone had noticed, and Solas was somewhat restrained unless particularly annoyed that day. Having Issala was a big help; she had missed walking onto a field and knowing there was a force of nature by her side). 

“Chargers, stand down!” Iron Bull bellows, and turns to Krem, “Krem, how’d we do?” 

“Five or six wounded, chief. No dead,” Krem says smartly. 

“That’s what I like to hear. Let the throatcutters finish up, then break out the casks,” Iron Bull says jovially before walking over to their group. 

“So you’re with the Inquisition, huh? Glad you could make it. And you brought Adaar!,” he said cheerfully, nodding at Issala who had crossed her arms (by the Maker, he was _taller_ than _Issala?)_ , “Come on, have a seat. Drinks are coming.” 

“Iron Bull, I presume,” she said, taking a seat on the stump he had motioned at. 

“Yeah, the horns usually give it away,” Iron Bull said drily. 

“And the constant lack of a shirt,” Issala said, rolling her eyes. 

“Aw, are you jealous?” Iron Bull chuckled, flexing a bit, “You mages are always a bit squishy.” 

“You, me, training grounds, anytime,” Issala said easily, narrowing her golden eyes a bit. 

Iron Bull grins and tells Krem to check again to make sure none of the Tevinter mercenaries get away, and the two of them exchange affectionate barbs (maybe that was just the kind of relationships he tended to gather). 

“So, you’ve seen us fight,” Iron Bull said, turning back to their group, “We’re expensive, but we’re worth it…and I’m sure the Inquisition can afford us.” 

“I’ll make sure he doesn’t charge exorbitant prices that’ll worry the Ambassador; he’s good, but he’s not as good as us.” Issala reassures her. 

(If Issala can seriously slash the Charger’s prices, she thinks Josephine might actually hug Issala. She wonders if Issala would faint if that would happen) 

“You wound me Adaar,” Iron Bull said, mockingly placing a giant hand on his chest, “Besides, what’s this I hear about you guys working for the Inquisition on a trial basis? Never heard you guys to do that.” 

“None of your business,” Issala snaps. 

Iron Bull nods sagely, “So some pretty thing _did_ catch your eye. Which one? The spymaster’s a redhead…but not exactly your type, is she? Too scary.” 

“The Chargers seem like an excellent company,” she broke in before Issala could attempt to strangle the other qunari (she looked _quite_ murderous). 

She glances around the battlefield (no survivors—and this is war, but still. She’s not sure how she feels about that) 

“They are,” Iron Bull says seriously, nodding, “But you’re not just getting the boys, you’re getting me” 

“Seriously?” Issala said, raising an eyebrow. 

“You need a frontline bodyguard, I’m your man,” Iron Bull continues, “Whatever it is—demons, dragons? The bigger the better.” 

“Don’t let his muscly appearance fool you, he hates demons,” Issala warned her. 

Iron Bull shrugged, “And I’ll kill them faster to get rid of them faster. And there’s one other thing. Might be useful, might piss you off. Although you probably already know it with Adaar there.” 

“You’re Ben-Hassrath,” she states calmly. 

“Got it in one,” Iron Bull said easily, “The Ben-Hassrath are concerned about the Breach. Magic out of control like that could cause trouble everywhere. I’ve been ordered to join the Inquisition, get close to the people in charge, and send reports on what’s happening. But I also _get_ reports from Ben-Hassrath agents all over Orlais. You sign me on, I’ll share them with your people” 

(Well, that was certainly different. She had expected him to be somewhat cagey about it, but he was just putting all his cards on the table. Or was he? This was certainly a disarming move; it made him look honest. But a spy’s job was to make the mark trust them, wasn’t it?) 

“You’re just telling us all this?” she asked dubiously, tapping her fingers against her staff. 

“You have Adaar and her company, I’m sure they would have already told you,” Iron Bull pointed out, “Even if they weren’t here, hiding my identity from something called the Inquisition? I’d have been tipped sooner or later. Better you hear it right up front from me. Whatever happened at that Conclave thing, it’s bad. Someone needs to get that Breach closed. So whatever I am, I’m on _your_ side” 

(Such a thing for a spy to say. She’s not sure how much she believes him, but Issala doesn’t seem to be protesting, so at the very least, she didn’t think that he was that much of a threat.) 

She shifts in her seat, watching him closely, “What would you send home in these reports of yours?” 

“Enough to keep my superiors happy. Nothing that’ll compromise your operations,” Iron Bull replied with a wave of his hand, “The Quanri want to know if they need to launch an invasion to stop the whole damn world from falling apart. You let me send word of what you’re doing, it’ll put some minds at ease. That’s good for everyone.” 

“Nothing on the Tal-Vashoth we have with us?” she asked, leaning forward as Issala shifted slightly. 

Iron Bull shook his head, “There are bigger fish to fry than Tal-Vashoth that aren’t causing any trouble.” 

(Ben-Hassrath reports could come in handy, even if they’re just snippets. Leliana can figure something out, and this way, they not only get forces they sorely need, but even resources for their strapped spymaster. At this rate, maybe they’ll actually manage to get this organization up and running.) 

She spreads her hands with a smile, “Welcome, Iron Bull and the Chargers.” 

“Excellent,” Iron Bull says with a wide grin, slapping both her and Issala on the shoulder (Issala doesn’t even budge, but she barely manages to not go flying face first into the ground), “And we’ll be in good company! I’m holding you to that match, Adaar.” 

“As long as you don’t whine about getting your horns stuck in the ground after I knock you flat,” Issala replied, shrugging his hand off. 

“It’ll be fun!” Iron Bull says cheerfully, and then turns to yell for the Chargers to finish drinking on the road amidst complaints from said Chargers. 

There are a few matters to take care of on the Storm Coast, since Scout Harding reported that some of her scouts have disappeared into the mountains, so they make a slightly miserable camp in the cliffs overlooking the rocky beach. The tents are thankfully waterproof, but it is wet and squishy and cold outside, and she has never missed sunny Ostwick more. (Varric complains enough for the two of them though, and they spend some time with Issala and Rian wistfully thinking about mild Free Marches weather). They spend the next few days combing the hills for the scouts and the headquarters of the Blades of Hessarian group that Scout Harding had told them about. Unfortunately, they find the bodies of the scouts, along with a note about an amulet called the Amulet of Mercy that everyone will need to wear in order to negotiate with the group. Thankfully, many of the Hessarians that attack them have these amulets, so they take them and walk into their headquarters and defeat their leader, and now apparently the group is now part of the Inquisition. 

(She finds it strange—people have _died_ —but they have no time for those thoughts, so she graciously accepts them, and Cassandra smiles all the way back to camp. The Inquisition is growing, no small thanks to her, and maybe if this keeps going, no one will be able to drag her anywhere she doesn’t want to go) 

They head back to Haven after the Hessarians have settled more into their role on the Storm Coast, and it seems as though Iron Bull and his Chargers have settled in well (although as Issala points out, Iron Bull still seems to have not found a shirt despite the snow. She doubts his nights are cold though; there were some Chantry sisters giggling about him, and she _really_ doesn’t want to know) 

Leliana has a letter for her, and she eagerly takes it, expecting a response from Marcel (that was quick), but her heart seizes when she sees the Trevelyan seal on it. 

(She never, ever, in all the years that have passed since she left the Trevelyan manor gotten a response to any of her letters. Every single one had been returned, and every single one she had fed to the fire— 

This was because of Lachlan, wasn’t it. Or was it because she was now being called Herald?) 

She walks to her room, and closes the door heavily behind her, and stares at the envelope. It isn’t a mistake—there is her name, _Rasleanne Trevelyan_ in an elegant hand that is undoubtedly her mother’s. Staring at it doesn’t give any answers though, so slowly, with trembling hands she opens it. There is a single cream piece of stationary, and it reads in her mother’s lovely hand 

_If only it had been you who had died instead._

(She— 

This— 

What else was she expecting? Love and acceptance? She had had none from them since she was twelve; what difference would thirteen years make? This is the House Trevelyan, and heretical black sheep were never to be acknowledged. And she didn’t need them—she hadn’t needed them for years, she had found a new small family for herself— 

But they are gone now. Gone, gone, and an entire sea away. 

She has made friends here— 

But she can’t show them this, bring them this. She is, whether she likes it or not, the Herald of Andraste, and the symbol of the legitimacy of the Inquisition. She can’t afford to break down, not here, not now— 

But her mother wishes her dead in place of her brother. 

Where do you go from there?) 

She’s not sure how long she spends sitting there, staring at the crumpled letter and the fire, only that when the knocking starts, the shadows in her room have grown long and there is a cramp in her back. She stands up slowly, quickly swipes a hand over her face (what use are tears, they can’t change anything), and cracks the door open. 

It’s Cullen, standing there with a worried expression on his face. 

(Of course it would be him) 

“Rasleanne? Are you feeling well?” he asked gently, “I may be mistaken, but I thought we were to have a chess game today?” 

(Was that today? That—it was, wasn’t it. She cannot catch any kind of break today) 

“I’m sorry,” she says (Maker, her voice sounds like death—this isn’t going to work), “I—forgot.” 

Cullen’s frown deepens, “Are you alright, Rasleanne?” 

(No, she’s not, but she can’t say that) 

“I—I’m fine,” she manages to rasp out, “I’m—” 

( _Better off dead_ ) 

She’s crying (no, no, _no_ , didn’t she tell herself that she can’t break down in front of anyone?), and she tries to stop, but (her mother wishes her _dead_ ), and her hands are covering her face, and Cullen is quickly ushering her back into her room and closing the door behind them. 

“What happened?” he asked, staring at her intently. 

She shook her head (don’t make her say it), and pointed at the crumpled envelope and parchment on the floor. He frowns, stoops, and gathers it up, gently smoothing it out, and she turns away as he reads it (fine, let him know as well, he can hardly think worse of her, but she doesn’t have to look at him as he learns how much she is despised). 

“Who wrote this?” he asks, his voice tight with anger (at her?). 

“Lady Trevelyan,” she says quietly. 

She hears his intake of breath before he says, his voice low, “Your _mother_ wrote—this?” 

She draws a deep breath ( _breathe_ ), “She—I haven’t heard from them—any of them—in years—Maker, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m _sorry—”_

(Sorry that Lachlan is dead, sorry that she couldn’t save Oscar, sorry that Andi died protecting her, sorry that she failed, sorry that somehow she is here and they are not—) 

She feels a hand settle gently on her shoulder, and she looks up to see Cullen angrily toss the scrap of parchment and envelope into the fire, “There is nothing you have to be sorry for,” he says, looking her in the eye intently, “Nothing. Your mother is—well, there are many words I could use to describe her, but above all, she is _wrong_.” 

“You would have been better off with a Templar as your Herald than a mage,” she said duly, staring into the flames, “It would have been better.” 

“The Maker chose _you_ , and I for one, am glad of it,” Cullen replied firmly. 

She let out a bark of laughter that scrapes her throat, “Chose me? You think it was the Maker and not an accident of fate as well? Chose the _mage_ who let her friend die in the rebellion, who brought left her brothers to their deaths, who would gladly exchange the life of her biological brother for her _real_ one—” 

She stops and looks away (she has said too much). 

“Accidents of fate and the Maker guiding our actions tend to look much the same, I fear,” Cullen said quietly, “And I—I often made that bargain in my head, after what happened at the Circle. Who I would gladly trade to have my friends back.” 

She glances at him, and he has a sad smile, and perhaps he is speaking in earnest (why not, after all, but he is not speaking of trading his siblings for his friends), and she looks down at the ground, “I am no Herald,” she said tiredly. 

“Perhaps not, but still, you have recruited many to the Inquisition,” Cullen points out, his hand still warm on her shoulder, “You have brought soldiers and scouts and merchants and more. There is no one in the Inquisition who is not glad that you are here. Don’t listen to your mother, Void take her.” 

A horrified giggle bubbled out of her, “Oh, she would scrub your mouth if she ever heard you say that—” 

Cullen shrugged, “She is welcome to try.” 

She manages a breath of a laugh while she tries to wipe the tears from her face. Cullen once again offers her his handkerchief, and she takes it (it may even be the same one; she will give it back), and he slides the chair out from her desk so she can sit in it. 

“Should I get Captain Adaar? Or perhaps Josephine?” he asks her anxiously. 

She shakes her head quickly, “No. Just—could we just play chess?” she asks, pointing at the simple board on her desk she had bought from a merchant in the Hinterlands (she had thought Marcel might find it amusing, all of its pieces carved to be small mabari figures). 

“Of course,” Cullen said easily, drawing up another chair, and placing the board on the table. 

They play into the night, pieces clacking against the board. Cullen takes it easy on her at first, until she viciously takes piece after piece, pawn, knight, bishop, rook, king (at least she can still do this), and after that he plays in earnest once again. She asks about his own family as they play (it will be nice to hear about a more normal family than hers), and he tells her of his sisters, bossy Mia and pretty Rosalie, and brother Branson, his ally in his chess battles with his oldest sister, with a fond smile. It sounds nice, and by the time he wins their fourth game (they are tied then, 2-2), her breathing has gotten back to normal, and she no longer has to bite her lip and try not to remember. 

(She will though. It’s not the kind of thing you forget.) 

“It’s getting late,” she said softly as Cullen rubbed his hand over his eyes, “You should head back.” 

Cullen shook his head, “If you want to play another game, I can stay—” 

“You’ve probably been up since dawn,” she said, gathering up the pieces, “Get some rest.” 

“Are you sure?” he asked, looking at her worriedly. 

She nods, “I will be fine. I have survived worse than this.” 

“If you are sure,” he said, rising from his seat and opening the door, “Do not hesitate to call on me or anyone else though, if you would prefer to talk. Goodnight Rasleanne. Sleep well. And—don’t listen to your mother. You are worth _at least_ ten of her.” 

(It’s—strange. Nice, but strange. Why does he care? Do they count as friends now? That would be even stranger) 

“Thank you,” she says, smiling hesistantly, “Goodnight,” she says, and waves as he leaves. 

(A Templar friend. One who had once commanded Kirkwall’s Gallows. Oh, it could be a false front—but she doubts that. If he wanted her out, it would have been easy to bring that letter to the proper people. So, they’re friends, she guesses. Oscar might have laughed, and Andi would have for sure glared at her and then thrown hexes at him. Still, it’s—nice) 


End file.
